Goyle's Awakening
by Daernhelm
Summary: How does the world treat Mr. Gregory Goyle after the Battle of Hogwarts. What changes come over him? What challenges await?
1. Prologue: Battle of Hogwarts

Prologue

The Battle of Hogwarts

 _May 2, 1998_

"Expelliarmus!" cried the young man with his dark tousled hair at the end of the haphazard corridor of forgotten junk.

Greg tightened his fingers around his wand too late. He watched helplessly as the 8 and one third inches of poplar with a dragon heartstring core went sailing into the debris around them. He had always hated that spell. Why did Potter and his ilk rely on it so much?

Greg knew his mind didn't work the way Potter's and that mudblood Granger's did. He saw a problem and went straight at it, why disarm when a good stunner, or better yet a _crucio_ would work better and was faster. If your enemy was there, why not put them down? Mr. Malfoy could think like them, he understood the crazy twists and turns. What kind of mind he had to be able to comprehend the deranged minds of mudbloods and blood traitors and still be able to radiate the power Mr. Malfoy did? It was astonishing.

Greg pushed those thoughts away. He had to get his wand, so he turned to where it had flown and began jumping up and down trying to find it amidst this damn junk. Vince would have his back. He didn't need to worry. Sure their fight earlier had been viscous, but there was something about Vince, about having been best friends with a man since you were 5. You might have fights you might disagree on the little things, like whether to follow Mr. Malfoy, but you knew that they had your back.

Vince had been getting lots of extra tutoring from the Carrow's too, he could hold off the inferior magic of these weaklings for a while.

" _Avada Kedavra!_ " Vince's voice bellowed behind him. Greg began to turn, slightly confused as he was certain Mr. Malfoy had said not to kill them. Why wasn't Vince listening to Mr. Malfoy anymore? Greg's stomach churned at the fact that he was soon going to reach point of no return. Vince was pulling farther and farther away from Mr. Malfoy, and between the two Greg knew that his heart belonged with Vince. Yet he was going to miss working as part of a three person team.

His turn framed Vince's' face staring towards Potter, lit red at the moment by an incoming stunner. It seemed strange how time slowed for him at that moment watching the taller man's flat nose and rugged jaw. Then the red light of the stunner seemed to grow amazingly fast and Greg remembered no more.


	2. Chapter 1: The Wandless - 18 Months

Chapter 1

The Wandless

 _One and a Half Years Later_

Greg woke in darkness. He prefered it that way. Candles and torches and gas lamps all made him think Vince. He didn't want to think about Vince. He didn't want to think at all. As he rose his feet nudged aside empty bottles on the floor by his bed. He was desperate for a full one but he knew they were empty.

He'd finished the last one last night. He shuffled over to the door of his room that led out into the brightly lit hallways of Smith House. A few staggered steps later he was in the bathroom. The muggle style plumbing worked but always seemed to take forever to provide hot water so he splashed his face with cold water and looked into the mirror.

Or rather didn't look. Greg called it going turtle to himself. He would seem to detach his active thought process from the incoming sensory stimulus and just let his hands and body and life run on autopilot, brush the teeth, shave the face all without truly registering the face there.

If he had not been hiding in his shell, Greg would have seen what he had always seen. Plain brown hair growing low on his forehead kept buzzed. Not now for any sort of intimidation factor rather to prevent the need to care for and style hair. Eyes that still seemed to small for his face and still reflected dully in a manner that everyone - except Vince - had told Greg meant that he was stupid.

And he supposed he was stupid. Eighteen months ago, Draco had asked Greg to turn Merlin's Evidence with him and testify against some others. Greg had been doing what Vince and Draco and his teachers said he should, he'd been thinking the way his parents always said he should, he'd been standing up for a cherished way of life that was fading into the past.

He never saw what he was doing as wrong, or what his father and Lord Malfoy had done as wrong. And if the request had been to turn Merlin's Evidence against them or the Carrows or any one of a hundred others from Minister Thicknesse on down he would have talked till the end of time. Not that he could say much, Greg was not one often invited to sit in for strategy sessions. "A Pawn's pawn, and that's being generous," was Mrs. Lestrange's description of him.

Yet what Draco asked was simple, turn Merlin's Evidence against Vince. When Draco had told him what he was suggesting before their solicitors had arrived, Greg had sworn he couldn't have heard correctly. After Draco had made it clear that he was serious it had taken multiple stunners from three different Aurors to get Greg to release Draco.

The House of Malfoy was no longer associated with the House of Goyle. And the assault had earned Greg the 6 months that the Ministry Prosecutor had demanded he spend in Azkaban. It had earned Draco a rather nasty scar of his left ankle from where Greg had snapped the bone. Although by now Greg was sure that scar was erased from Draco's mind as much as Greg and Vince were.

In addition to the time in Azkaban for the assault Greg had been bound from magic for 2 years. Yet as times passes it is possible for the mood in a country to as well. Currently, Sera Greengrass, was introducing a bill to allow all those bound from magic who had passed a satisfactory parole hearing and had a sponsor to have full magical rights restored. At the moment this meant only a few people, notably Sera's distant cousins the Parkinsons to have their magic returned.

For Greg it seemed strange since today was his 'parole' hearing. Whereas previously he might have been able to anticipate a clean slate after today with simply waiting 6 months to get a new wand, now the parole boards were far more likely to disprove the parole simply to punish those wicked enough to have given a damn about the direction this country and society were going.

Greg walked down the narrow stairs at the back of Smith House, hoping his feet for once didn't sound like a herd of descending elephants and alert every house elf in the place that he was leaving. Even one house elf knowing he was leaving today was likely to mean that he was going to have an oh so casual run in Zacharias. And today Greg just wasn't in the mood.

He was grateful of course. Zacharias Smith was the heir to a massive country manor, and a small house just off Diagon Alley. He was now working as a scout for the Wimbourne Wasps in the London area and generally living a life of ease as the scion of the House of Smith. He and Greg had achieved a mutual respect for each other on the Quidditch pitch and Zacharias offered Greg a place to stay. It wasn't much a room in the old servants quarters and the occasional meal, but it kept the rain off and Greg had nowhere else to be.

They also were both outcasts. Hogwarts Alumni from the class of '98, which usually meant that you were viewed as a hero. That was the class of Neville Longbottom, of Ronald Weasley, of Hermione Granger, of _Harry Potter_. Of course they were heros! Who had they fought in the Battle of Hogwarts, had the spent the year in the Room of Requirement safe from the Carrows. When the answer was for Greg that you spent your seventh year learning how to better caste the _Crucio_ curse and for Zacharias that you had deliberately fled Hogwarts rather than fighting people tended to look at you funny.

It was a relief to be in a house where suggesting that Mr. Potter wasn't a saintly glowing hero was acceptable. Where it was okay to open gasp at the fact that the Chudley Cannons had consigned themselves to a bottom of table finish when they signed the streaky Ron Weasley as their starting keeper.

The one point where they didn't quite see eye to eye was on Ms. Hermione Granger. Zacharias was burning a torch for her that was clear even to Greg. And the only time that Zacharias had ever mentioned asking Greg to leave was when Greg had by chance refered to her as a mudblood. And so Greg avoided the subject of Granger no matter what her exploits might be in the Daily Prophet.

The House Elves must have been either asleep or complicit in Greg's creep down the back stairs. Such things as servants stair cases that could fit a normal man, let alone one of Greg's size, were quite uncommon in the stately homes of the magical upper crust. Anyone who was anyone had a house elf or two, so the need for fleet of maids and footmen bouncing about was not common. That such a room as Greg had existed at all marked the house as belonging to a person who at one point had been wealthy/important enough to employ a live in 'man of business.'

The midday sun was baking the bricks of Somerset Crescent as Greg emerged. He recoiled immediately, the sun was far too bright for a November day. Greg pulled his light weight Slytherin Quidditch cloak a little tighter around his shoulders. A glance to the arch that marked where Somerset Crescent led off Diagon Alley revealed that others were in far heavier and far bulkier robes for this time of year. Greg didn't think he'd ever find something truly cold after Azkaban. The last of the Dementors had been being ushered out when he arrived and the chill of the creatures still seemed to radiate from those unforgiving rock walls.

The journed to Rowle's Arms in Knockturn Alley was probably a 30 minute walk. Most customers would have taken the Floo network to Gringotts and walked the 3 or so minutes to the pub with a reputation as sinister as its namesake from there. Greg didn't like the Floo network honestly there was something about stepping into a green fire that just felt horribly like how he imagined it had felt to Vince in the end. So to walk for thirty minutes seemed no great loss to him.

As he stepped into the pub, the publican a "Mr. Greene" - who Greg had belived when he said he didn't need any other name - glanced at him sharply.

"Let's see yer coin," he snapped, as he crossed his arms muscles straining.

Greg produced a silver sickle and showed it to the innkeep and with a grunt said "Anyone got der wireless on Mr. Greene?"

"Three of the _Quietus_ rooms have it going, but only two is open for any guest."

"I'll have an ale," Greg said sliding the sickle back into his pocket and pulling out 5 knuts. "Who is open," he finished.

"Well there's Mrs Flint, in room 5, its run as a BYOB, discussion not encouraged. Room 6 has 10 bottles of Firewhiskey available and a caterer came in earlier to do up some fancy nosh. It's fully open and 'Supports Discussion'."

This was the challenge facing Greg now, where to go to listen to the proceedings in the ministry to hear if the Greengrass bill passed. Rowle's Arms had a fairly small common room, only two tables covered with the lines and scratches of old Wizarding Chess games. If you went to the Arms you likely were looking for one of the 10 Quietus Rooms. These rooms had anti eavesdropping charms on them that were freshened every fortnight or when an especially wealthy patron paid for it. While almost all Wizards would also then cast their own protective charms the ideas was to provide all parties with some degree of protection.

Most of the people meeting in the Quietus rooms were not truly acquainted with each other, but had business of one kind or another to discuss. Occasionally some of the rooms would have the Magical Wireless turned on and groups would host small gatherings there, supporters of the Appleby Arrows used one for every game. Rooms could be considered Open to anyone who wanted to come in or Closed in which case only the invited few were allowed in. To buy an open room cost 4 sickles an hour or 1 galleon for a 5 hour block.

The world was a strange difficult one these days. You never knew what kind of discussions or conversation or trouble could arise from simply sitting around with a group of people. Greg was of a size with Mr. Greene, if a touch shorter. His own muscles strained the sleeves of his robes and few could match him for sheer mean staring. Yet he had promised himself that he was not going to return to a life of Greg 'Goon' Goyle.

"Who's running 6?" Greg asked carefully accepting the glass of ale that Mr. Greene slid his way.

"Well, Lord Malfoy paid for it but… hey!" Mr. Greene's indignant call bounced off Greg's back as he walked carefully into room 5, nodded respectfully at Mrs. Flint and sat in one of the chairs lined against the wall.

The wireless was, as Greg had expected, tuned to the News of the Day program. At the moment reporter Cho Chang was describing the scene of the debate.

"...really quite contentious here. Shacklebolt has actually taken to the floor to restore order and Sera Greengrass is still shouting that Mr. Weasley had shot a hex at her as she was presenting her speech to the assembled group."

"Can you tell us Cho," the sonorous tones of Dan McLeod cut in, "will the vote be able to continue? We only got through about ½ the delegates. Did you see the Phoenix leave?"

"Dan, it is still a bit confused here, but what we are able to see and hear now, and what you can hear behind me is that the Phoenix is actually singing to calm the crowd. I imagine we will be able to complete this vote with almost no further interruptions. As a reminder to our listeners if those Delegates who were all Order of the Phoenix vote against the bill Mrs. Greengrass can only have 3 other votes go against her if she expects this to pass."

"And so far," Dan said "we've seen no sign to indicate that any one delegate is going to change their minds on this bill."

The voices and commentary droned on while. Greg didn't care so much about the inner workings of the government, he just needed to know if he could have a wand again soon.

The ale disappeared and another two had followed the first before finally Horace Slughorn cast a vote for Greengrass's measure and it had officially passed.

Feeling steady on his feet if a little lighter in the pocket Greg walked from The Rowle Arms into the future. He was wandless yes, but there was hope now. How much was still open to interpretation.


	3. Chapter 2: Savings - Three Months Later

Chapter 2

Savings

 _3 Months Later_

The line shuffled along slowly towards Mrs. D at the counter. Greg shuffled along with it. For 3 months he had been working double shifts at Djilliuesti's Magical Iron works. D's produced the best iron cauldrons and frying pans for household use that were in the words of Spokeswitch Gwenog Jones "perfect for charms!". His father had worked at Mr. D's as a salesman for a few years when Greg was very young, going door to door in magical Britain selling wrought iron fences that had been set with protection charms and alarm jinxes for intruders. Dad had been surprisingly good at his job, and Mr. D had gladly offered Greg a job even without magic.

So Greg worked his double shifts, mainly moving iron work that already had charms cast on it, the type of thing you couldn't leave to a muggle to touch in case the special gate Mr. Nott had requested for his manor that could sing and carry on conversations with local tradesmen started talking. The pay wasn't much, Greg knew that in some ways he was nothing more than a human forklift, but it was enough to keep him fed without his having to eat with Zacharias for every meal.

It was enough as well that after three months of double shifts Greg had finally saved enough so he could count himself once more a real wizard. Greengrass's Gaff as some had called it had been amended to require the witch or wizard who sought full wand use and their magical rights restored to pass their parole hearing, prove steady employment, have the sponsorship of another wizard, and pay a five hundred galleon bond.

The parole hearing had come and gone, and to his surprise Greg had passed. He couldn't understand all the word's his solicitor had spoke but the old man had convinced the board to sign Greg's papers. As the board had been packing up Greg had turned to the man, "Thank you Mr. Fenwick." Greg reached his hand out towards the older wizard.

Mr. Fenwick stared at Greg's hand a long time before speaking. When he finally did speak again it was in a very low almost detached voice.

"Mr. Goyle, I have worked your case and done all I can for you because the ministry said I must. I guess you could say I've given you a second chance. It's more than your father gave my son, but if I am to rise above the madness of vengeance I must give it to you." He took Greg's hand and shook it gravely.

"I - I didn't know my father did …" Greg started stammering taken aback by Mr. Fenwick's comments.

"You probably weren't even born when my boy Benjy was killed by your father, this was in '77. Do better son. Do better than your father, do better than my Benjy. Your generation is going to change Magical Britain. Do better than we did." And Mr. Fenwick walked away briefcase in hand.

Greg stood now in front of Mrs. D who handled the money for her husband's business. She smiled at Greg as he came up to her.

"Well now Gregory," Mrs. D always used his full name in talking with him. "That was another 80 hour week, you'll soon put all these other lads out of work taking on work at that rate."

Greg had always liked Mrs. D, she was a plump plain woman but was far more intelligent than he was and so patient. She had helped him out on his first days at the foundry in teaching him again and again how things worked there. She'd also spent at least 2 lunch half hours a week working with Greg on his quill work.

Greg hated writing, he found it hard to make his hand move the way others did with quills, each letter, each stroke was a chore for him, and beyond that the letters never stayed put when he looked back at them. But Mrs. D never got mad or frustrated with him, and always complimented him on the progress he was making. He liked her for not saying he was as stupid as he knew he was like everyone else did.

"It's my last week of the doubles Mrs. D," Greg said loudly. He knew some of the other employees had been mad at his grabbing up every free hour on the schedule. "I'll be only at 40 next week."

"Well our loss, but I'm glad you'll have a chance to sleep, honestly the way you came in some mornings one would have thought you didn't sleep at all." She slid two smaller bags that clinked across the board to him. "Good luck Gregory."

He headed outside, there was a portkey that should get him back to Diagon Alley at 18:00 before Gringotts closed its doors for the night. The two small bags would bring Greg's savings to 525 galleons. Technically 525 Galleons, 6 sickles and 28 Knuts, but he tended to spend the sickles and knuts on lunch and ale and when he could get it firewhiskey.

He missed the taste of firewhiskey, the smell of the bottle when it was first opened, and the weight of fine glass in your hand. Greg shook himself slightly, he promised himself that once he had the wand tomorrow he would buy a bottle to celebrate, but until then he needed to stay focused. Holding tight to the toilet seat Greg felt the familiar yank behind his navel as he was instantly transported to Diagon Alley.

Things were going smoothly until Greg approached the goblin behind the counter at Gringotts. After providing the key and mentioning in passing that he intended to make a substantive withdrawal this evening the goblin peremptorily told him to stay put and walked away. When he returned he was accompanied by another goblin who was flanked by several security trolls. Greg did what he would have done instinctively, flexing his shoulders and shifting his weight to a more balanced position ready to strike.

This looked like trouble.

"Mr. Goyle," the new goblin said in a voice that was remarkably low pitched for a goblin. "I understand that you wish to make a withdrawal from your account. That is within your rights, however, we have also been contacted by the firm of Stallings & Stallings regarding an outstanding debt accrued by your late father." The goblin produced a document as if from thin air and passed it to Greg to read.

"They placed a lien for a considerable sum of money on your vault and we cannot allow you to withdraw money that would lower your balance below that currently under the lien. You can of course take this matter to court or discuss it with Stallings & Stallings."

"How much?" Greg asked as he tried to read the paper in front of him. The stationary was certainly expensive and the decorations along the border spoke of considerable wealth. The words however swam on the page, seeming to fall into each other and swap letters with ones nearby. There was no way he would be able to read this here.

"I believe the figure that Stallings and Stallings are looking for is approximately two thousand five hundred…" the goblin began but Greg cut him off.

"...seventy three galleons and 10 sickles." Greg finished for him. It was the exact amount the thank you dinner had cost. The dinner his father had thrown for some of his friends after Lord Malfoy's fall. It had been a gamble to suggest to those in favor with The Dark Lord that Goyle was still a valuable member of the Death Eaters. The dinner where his father had been discussing with these friends the finer points of the Cruciatus curse, where father had needed a subject for the curse and at the suggestion of Rodolphus Lestrange had summoned his son. That night was still finding a way to torture him all these years later Greg found somewhat ironic.

"Do you still wish to visit your vault, Mr. Goyle?" the goblin asked. Greg shook his head. He didn't want to visit his vault ever again. He didn't want to even think about the vault or his thrice damned father or paroles or bonds or double shifts feeling the weight of the iron tear skin off of your fingers and struggle with semi sentient fences.

He stumbled from the bank. His mind a whirl, the flickering gas lamps of Diagon Alley were lit and by their glow and the occasional wand casting forth light from a _lumnos_ spell Greg's vision was a jumble of crossing shadows and conflicting images. He had 22 galleons in his pouches, and whereas before he had simply wanted a firewhiskey Greg knew now that he needed one.

The rest of the night was not one that Greg could ever remember as anything more than occasional still scenes of a few brief seconds.

When he raised his third bottle of firewhiskey at the Rowle's Arms.

Mr Greene's hands depositing him outside at closing after he had refused to leave.

The loudness of the Knight Bus as it stopped in front of him.

The feel of air rushing over his fist as he took a swing at the conductor when he wouldn't accept a fifth of firewhiskey as payment.

The feel of his stomach cramping as it tried to eject anything and everything inside him at the arch to Somerset Crescent.

And finally staggering into Smith house with three half finished bottles swinging from his hands and screaming "Happy Fucking Christmas Z!"

What was clear now was that he was well and truly beyond saving.


	4. Chapter 3: Awakening - The Next Morning

_Authors Note:_

 _As many of you have guessed, I am horrific at proofreading and editing. I would be grateful if anyone was willing to beta or help with that! Please let me know. I also cannot tell you how much it means that you've read ANY of this. Thank You._

* * *

Chapter 3

Awakening

 _The Next Morning_

"Mr Goyle, must wake now," a quavering voice spoke gently into the fog of Greg's blank mind. His eyelids flitted open, but they refused to focus on the blurry form in front of him. His mind acknowledged the shortness of the creature, but the pain in his head suggested that the correct response to it, to ANY stimuli at the moment was to back to sleep. His eyelids slid closed again as he decided to give in to sleep.

"Mr. Goyle MUST wake NOW!" the voice tugged him awake once more. A small force was shoving Greg's thigh, and an iron bar was pressed into his shoulder. His eyes tried to focus again on the creature who was shoving his leg with what appeared to be it's entire wait.

"Gnughh?" Greg asked.

"Master has asked you to join him for breakfast," the unnaturally loud voice was not disappearing as Greg had hoped. There was nothing else for it, his hand shot out and attempted to grab the pestering pixie that had decided to torment a man as down on his luck as Greg.

"Mr. Goyle must not grab Dinsey. Please stop Mr. Goyle, Master has asked for you to eat with him." Greg's hand kept up the ineffectual attempt to silence the damned pixie. Finally he connected with something and instinctively he tightened his grip.

The shriek the creature gave at this brought Greg sitting upright immediately. It was the most horrible sound that he had heard in the last year. A wail of unsurpassed agony and indignation. Greg's eyes focused on the creature who he was holding by one leg. With a shock he recognized Dinsey, one of Smith House's House Elves.

He carefully put down the shrieking creature stammering, "Oh goodness Dinsey, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to grab you. Are you all right?"

Dinsey had stopped the shriek the moment that Greg had placed her down once more. She was currently straightening the smock that she wore proudly. "Mr. Goyle has been told to not grab for us before. I wanted Mr. Goyle to know he was in trouble before I had to hurt him. Dinsey does not like hurting Mr. Goyle."

"I know Dinsey, I'm sorry, I seem to have a head this morning." Greg said with an attempt at a little laugh. The back of his mouth tasted like a bug had crawled inside to die.

"Mr. Goyle must meet Master for breakfast," said Dinsey with the faintest disapproving look at Greg.

Greg grunted, his stomach twitching at the idea of food and he worried that he was going to end up adding to the mess on the floor. Again from the look of it. He stood up and noticed that the previously presumed iron bar was just an empty bottle of firewhiskey that he had apparently fallen on when he passed out last night. His clothes stank of alcohol and vomit.

"Let me just go change my robes," Greg said to Dinsey, hoping that the House Elf would let him go so he could grab the flask of whiskey he kept in his room so he could steady his nerves.

Alas it was not to be, with a small sigh Dinsey snapped her small fingers and Greg's robes instantly were cleaned of the caked vomit and spilled whiskey. "Master wanted you to join him promptly," Dinsey said with a small nod. "But Master must be able to Eat breakfast. So Dinsey has helped."

Greg followed Dinsey towards the sun room where a light repast of fruit, eggs, sausage, bacon, ham, steak, waffles, and assorted pastries were spread over a sideboard. As was tradition, you served yourself breakfast, while lunch and dinner would be served by the amazing ministrations of the house elves.

"G! You're looking better than when I nearly broke my neck stumbling over you in the front hall this morning. Although not much better. Want some coffee? Tea? Dinsey, get G a cup of coffee, blacker than a Dementor's arse okay?" Zacharias Smith boomed and babbled in his normal manner. One that Greg had never understood. For Greg it took considerable time to get his mind wrapped around conversation other than extreme basics. His mind just seemed a second behind everyone else, and so instead of speaking and embarrassing himself with how stupid he seemed if he said something after Draco or Vince or Pansy had already said something far more clever, Greg had just started to stay quiet.

Zacharias never stayed quiet. Or at least not more for him to hear the beginning of your sentence so he could interrupt you. His mind and mouth seemed to move so fast and Greg was sure that what he was saying was witty. After all Zacharias laughed at what he said so often it must be.

"Zachar… Z," Greg corrected himself, "I really don't want a coffee…"

"Nonsense," Zacharias, cut in, "G, you tied one on last night, a good cup of coffee is exactly what you need. A little pick me up before you get your wand today. Still planning on going to Ollivanders? There is a new wandmaker in Godric's Hollow I hear, prices are very reasonable, and she's willing to use more exotic cores than the old man. No? Well I suppose one must keep up appearances. Where is Dinsey with that coffee?"

Dinsey was just that moment walking in with a tray of coffee, with creamer and sugar bowl. Greg smiled inwardly as he sat at the sun dappled table where Zacharias was sitting. Dinsey, was a house elf and would of course obey Zacharias's commands, but she knew that Greg loathed the taste of black coffee. She had even brought the 'Mr. Goyle China' as she termed it, the thick nearly indestructible mugs and bowls that Muggles had designed for use on board ships at sea in rough weather. 5 spoonfuls of sugar later and Greg could almost stomach the coffee.

"Actually… uh… Z, about the wand," Greg started.

"Of course I'm willing to be your sponsor for that G. Don't mention it again, I already agreed didn't I? And of course the sponsorship of a Member of Dumbledore's Army should carry extra weight. I imagine even the ministry still jumps when one of us mentions something. Not like you Inquisitorial Squad chappies eh? Still we were young can't blame you for getting on the wrong side like that when even the sorting hat put you Slytherin." Zacharias was in full babble mood this morning, that much was very clear.

"No, Zacharias.. Sorry Z, I am not going to be able to get a wand, it's an old family debt I've got to repay…" Greg cut in giving as vague an answer as he could.

"Ah well say no more. Look old man, I hate to be bore, but we do need to talk about last night. See, this has become a bit of a pattern. I'm sure you understand the Crescent gets very perturbed at any sort of visible disturbance, and I'm rather afraid you managed to wake up several neighbors including the Fudges and Shafiqs. They were quite understandable that the first time this happened. I mean most of us have had a drink once in a while." Zacharias paused for breath. Greg worried sometimes that his friend enjoyed talking so much that he'd forget to breathe.

At the same time, a knot was growing tighter in his stomach. He may have had a drink or two before, but nothing really serious. So he sang in high spirits? What was wrong with that. But in a super posh neighborhood like this it was probably frowned on. Still as destitute as the House of Goyle may be it was certainly not a time for it to be pushed around by the likes Rufus Fudge. As Greg prepared his rejoinder Zacharias continued.

"So, I want you to promise me to lay off the drink? I know, it is a tedium sport but I'm sure you can do it. I've asked Faud to remove any he finds in your room. And we've put a new lock on the wine cellar. Should help a bit."

Greg stood up. It was one thing to give him a mild reproof but to demand he stop having the occasional glass of firewhiskey? To suggest that he'd steal from his host when he had not so much as taken a single bottle from Smith Houses was the gravest of insults. He placed the mug of coffee down on the table extremely carefully as he was sure that if he had just put it down he would have smashed the mug.

"I'm leaving Mr. Smith. Thank you for the hospitality of your house." He turned to leave. A quick stop at his room, there wasn't much there. Then he could be gone. Out of a place where he was so unappreciated as this. Of course where he should go was an excellent question but Greg thought he could find somewhere. Maybe Mr. and Mrs D could give him a bed.

"G, please…" Zacharias began. But Greg continued to walk from the sun room towards the rest of the house.

"Greg, if you must leave I understand. I'm ever so pleased that you've been our guest here at Smith House, what do you say as a last day type thing that you come with me to Cornwall today, my treat? The second round of the European Schools Quidditch cup is taking place at Rame Head. Rame Academy of Astronomy has several promising players and of course you've heard of their opponent Mudgley Muggle, they've been the talk of the sport world this year. They've not lost a match."

Greg stopped at the foot of the narrow steep staircase that led to his room. With a sigh he turned back to Zacharias. He realized that he was only fooling himself that he had anywhere else to go. He did his best to tone down his looming. He often was told that his normal facial expression looked like he was trying to stare down a rhinocerus. "Z, I would be very glad to join you for this journey, and please do forgive me for the outburst just now."

"Think nothing of it, portkey leaves in 15 minutes if you want to change. Dinsey can show you where to go for Omnoculars or anything else you might need. We might need to do a little flying ourselves see how some of these prospects do what do you say? Course we'll use borrowed brooms if it comes to that."

Greg moved up the stairs as quickly as his bulk would allow, turning sideways without thinking. If he had attempted to climb the stairs square on he would have become stuck, which some might see as a comment on the size of his shoulders, but Greg tended to see it as a mark of just how narrow the stairs were.

The bathroom at the top of the stairs provided the cold water he needed to shock himself a little more awake, and after a small check of his room he did indeed find his flask and the extra bottles of firewhiskey he had saved all empty. He changed quickly into his second best robes, which after the tear last night might now be his best robes, grabbed a second hooded sweatshirt to go underneath and turned to find Dinsey standing in the door to the room.

Years ago Greg had been allowed to listen to the lecture that Lord Malfoy gave his son about the proper discipline and use of house elves. He hadn't understood much of it himself, since how Draco was being told to treat House Elves was how Draco treated nearly everyone including Vince and Greg, but there had been one statement that he always had remembered.

"Never," Lord Malfoy said. "Never apologize to a House Elf. It serves no purpose. The creature can barely comprehend clear human speech you can rest assured that they do not understand niceties of polite society. There is nothing you can do that will justify apologizing to the creatures up to and including killing them, the only reason to stay your hand there is financial burden finding a new house elf entails."

Greg had always followed that precept at Hogwarts where the hundreds of house elves that lived and worked there were a scarce site around the Slytherin dungeons. And during his summer when he and Vince would visit Draco for some training together he had certainly never seen fit to apologize to the string of house elves the Malfoy's kept.

And yet… he looked at Dinsey standing in the doorway. Remembered the horrid shriek she had let out when he grabbed her and thought back to when he Draco and Vince and he had been practicing for Quidditch. To improve Vince and his aim with bludgers Draco suggested that they use moving targets to 'simulate game time chaos'. Instead of levitating and charming a bunch of targets, Vince had suggested they just use a house elf. Draco loved the idea. Greg had been indifferent. The two men he loved most, Draco, his benefactor, who despite calling him every name under the sun also knew that a lords duty was to those who served him loyally; and Vince, his best friend, the man he had grown to love through 7 years at Hogwarts, and who he knew would never return those feelings besotted as he was with Daphne Greengrass. Those two had said it was okay. And the bludgers that Greg had smashed towards the house elves had caused them to shriek, just like Dinsey had. Greg hadn't slept well for two weeks after that, and given everything else… maybe Lord Malfoy had been wrong about this as well.

"Look Dinsey, I'm… really sorry about earlier," Greg said swallowing. To his surprise the house elf smiled at him and seemed to fully comprehend his comments.

"Dinsey has already forgotten Mr. Goyle. Would Mr. Goyle like a thermos of tea for the match, Dinsey has heard that it can be cold in Cornwall in February," the diminutive house elf offered a thermos larger than she was towards Greg.

Taking it he said, "Thanks, where is this portkey Dinsey?" and he turned to follow as she led him out of the house and end of Somerset Crescent.


	5. Chapter 4: Quidditch and Cousins

_Sorry for the delay on this chapter... its considerably longer than some of my others and I can only really write on weekends. Thanks to all of you for reading and reviewing and commenting PLEASE send me feedback!_

Chapter 4

Quidditch and Cousins

 _Later that Day_

The site of the vibrant green of the Quidditch Pitch was speaking to Greg. He had loved it when Draco had allowed he and Vince to try out for the squad. Vincent never truly enjoyed Quidditch. He was decent, could fly alright and being a beater was a position that could be seen to not require a great deal of skill, and with Draco as the captain finally there was almost no other competition.

Greg, however, loved to fly. There was something about being on a broom that just felt right to Greg. He understood flying and broomsticks in ways that he knew he'd never understand transfiguration. Flying just made sense. As a first year at Hogwarts taking the flying classes required by the school Greg had consistently scored the third highest marks after Potter and Draco.

What Greg hadn't told Draco then, and now never would was that he often would return to the pitch during his free hours, and with Madame Hooch's permission refly the drill or examine that they had that day. Madame Hooch was shocked because each time in the informal sessions Greg had easily outstripped Draco and was nearly a tossup to beat Potter.

The pitch before him was a surprise as well. Greg had known that there were other schools for Witches and Wizards in Britain and the rest of Europe. But when one went to Hogwarts, even as a legacy student the tendency was to dismiss any school not named Hogwarts as beneath notice. Mudbloods who attended Hogwarts could be forgiven for presuming that there were only 40 odd magical students a year in all of Britain.

Rame Academy of Astronomy was impressing Greg's Hogwarts trained eyes. The facilities seemed adequate. Not a Castle but several very tall towers that seemed to open up higher up. And the Quidditch Pitch was easily a match for Hogwarts, certainly the dressing rooms seemed to be nicer from what he had seen when the Dean of Sport had shown Zacharias Smith and his guest around.

Zacharias walked over to where Greg was standing in the faculty viewing box.

"Fairly good spot don't you think?" Zacharias asked.

"Aye, but the wind off the water is going to play hell with the attack. I imagine that they're nearly unbeatable at home, but have trouble on the road?" Greg replied feeling the wind blow strongly across his bare head.

Zacharias looked at him a strange look in his eye. "The have lost only 1 match at home in the past 3 years," he said. "And play a little over .500 on the road."

Greg grinned at him. "So who we scouting for the Wasps today? Please tell me it's not the Keeper."

"I won't say which ones so I can get your honest take," Zacharias responded. "And I'm scouting, you're along for the ride."

A middle aged witch walked over to them. Her turquoise robes covered a slender form that was dominated by her beak of a nose. The crest she wore was square and divided into quadrants like the Hogwarts crest, but this one was the same colour as her robes in the first quarter and black in all the others with thick white lines dividing the four quadrants.

"Mr. Smith, back again I see," she said with a pleasant almost musical tone. "And your, ah guest."

"Yes, Mistress Helyer. Always a pleasure to visit your fine institution and see what talent you have," Zacharias replied.

Greg refocused on the view of the pitch and the winds currents. He had lived around Slytherins enough to know when a conversation had undertones that he couldn't see. Mistress Helyer, who presumably was chief witch of this school had tensed when she glanced at him and again when Zacharias had been praising her school. He didn't quite understand. He knew that his size tended to put people off, and anyone who read the paper frequently and was good with faces would have seen his picture over a year ago as he was sentenced to Azkabahn.

It was part of his life now and he needed to accept that. No matter how hard he may wish it he couldn't erase those parts of his life. He watched the wind blowing once more.

His attention was diverted by the arrival of several more witches and wizards to the faculty box, wearing what looked like very conservative muggle clothes. Mistress Helyer immediately broke off her conversation with Zacharias and walked over to them.

"Dean Wilkins," Mistress Helyer said, "a pleasure to see you here at Rame Academy."

"Mistress Helyer," the short man addressed as Dean Wilkins said. "We are always glad to visit, and look forward to your visiting us for the next game."

"Can I offer you some refreshment," Mistress Helyer, waved a hand and a previously empty table along the side of the box filled with small snacks and filled cups of some light violet drink that appeared to be bubbling.

More and more faculty and guests were arriving, the distinction between the two schools being evident on a clothing level at least by the clothing worn by each, the turquoise robes and muggle clothes were a sharp contrast. There were a few wizards and witches not obviously belonging to either group and most of these seemed to congregate around Zacharias at the rail.

Greg grabbed one of the glasses of fizzy violet liquid and downed it in a swallow to keep from having Zacharias lambast him for his drinking. The drink was pleasantly warm and definitely alcoholic, Greg immediately grabbed a second one for himself and staked out a position near the table where each time a glass was removed a new one would appear filled to the brim.

The rest of the stands filled with a crowd of spectators, the students for both schools Greg had expected but he surprised to see a large number of adults as well, apparently the schools welcomed parents to attend the matches.

Greg sipped at the violet liquid and watched the teams begin their warm up flights around the pitch. He was slightly surprised at the speed that the teams were going, certainly the equal to one of the house teams from Hogwarts in terms of warm up speed, although Greg doubted that these muggles would appreciate the art and tactics of the game from Hogwarts.

"Mr. Goyle?" a surprised voice said behind Greg. Greg turned to see a vaguely familiar face dressed in a muggle business suit staring inquiringly at him.

"Ah… yes… I'm Gregory Goyle," Greg managed. The man staring at him really looked familiar to Greg, but he couldn't quite attach a name to the face.

"I thought it was you. Strange I haven't really seen anyone from Hogwarts in a few years now. So it's always a pleasure to see a fellow alumni." Greg still couldn't place the man, although now that he mentioned it, Greg saw the Hogwarts silver ring of graduates on the man's finger, and the emerald at the center suggested he had been in Slytherin. Greg had sold the emerald from his own ring when he first had been released from Azkaban.

"I think you were a second year in my final year," the man continued. "You've certainly grown significantly from what I remember, always hanging around with that other young lad and Draco Malfoy. Of course, it is a bit of a shock when you hear how many of the house did find themselves working for or actively supporting You-Know-Who."

A name and face clicked for Greg, it was this man in emerald green robes trimmed in silver riding a broom at break neck speed in Quidditch games his first year at Hogwarts.

"Mr. Higgs?" Greg said cautiously.

"Yes?" Terrence Higgs said curiously.

"I am afraid I didn't quite recognize you, not in _those_ clothes." Greg said.

"Ah yes…" Higg's voice grew a shade cooler. "Mr. Goyle, I know that your friend Draco Malfoy was always a major critic of Muggles, but I am Muggle-born myself you know."

"I hadn't known that Mr. Higgs," Greg apologized. "Honestly, I'm not close to Draco anymore. I made some mistakes my later years at school you understand. And yes… I remember you played seeker my first year for the House team. I think though that we only overlapped one year."

"Ah that would explain it, yes," Higgs said a little more warmly. "I trust you've seen how to correct the mistakes you made at least as far as magical society is concerned. As for myself, I didn't go back for any Quidditch games after they reinstated the Tri-Wizard Tournament. I started working at Mudgley Muggle as their Junior Level Charms professor that year. I'm Senior Master of Charms now and also coach the Chasers for our all school Quidditch team. How about you Greg? What are you up to these days?"

Greg sighed, this is why he avoided other Slytherins. He was working a job that most would scoff at, for a salary that all would find laughable. So what did you say to a man who was now a Senior Master of Charms, even if it was at Mudgley Muggle?

"Oh, I am still trying to find my way at the moment Mr. Higgs," Greg replied with what he hoped was a non commital smile. He took a deep drink. "Nothing major planed, just seeing what will best suit my long term goals. Didn't you play Seeker at Hogwarts? I'm surprised your training Chasers?" Greg hoped his attempt to change the conversation would work and not be to transparent.

"Ah Mr. Goyle, yes. But I'll be frank the type of Quidditch we played with Flint as our captain was laughable." Terrence Higgs said. "The boy knew nothing of proper tactics or some of the advancements that the game has made in oh say the last 100 years. I dare say some of his attacking tactics were newer than that, but for seekers and beaters and keepers he was as useful as a toad."

Greg smiled, "I had a toad at Hogwarts. Called him Hermie. Died in my fourth year, around the time of the Tri-Wizard Cup. I ended up playing for the team eventually too. My sixth and seventh years, along with Vinc...er Mr. Crabbe. Draco played seeker then."

"Really, are you here as a scout then Mr. Goyle, or perhaps to teach this RAA side some actual Quidditch? What position did you play? Keeper?"

"Oh no, I was a beater. Quite enjoyable really I'd love to get back on a broom again, it has been a bit I must say." Greg stopped his fond reminisence and focused on the other questions Mr. Higgs had asked.

"I'm actually just here as a guest for Zacharias Smith, he's a Hogwarts alum too, from Hufflepuff my year and played seeker himself. He's now apparently scouting for the Wasps."

Mr. Higgs eyes narrowed slightly "The Wasps? Really? Well I hope the sides give a good account of themselves, I know some of the French Quidditch League teams are here today and Beauxbaton's scouts are here to see which side they'd rather face in the next round of the All Europe Schools championship. Would you introduce me to Mr. Smith?"

Greg was pleased to make the introductions if for no other reason than it allowed him to escape from Mr. Higgs. It wasn't that the man had been rude. Indeed no, he had been exceedingly polite. But small talk was not something that Greg truly enjoyed, he found it rather difficult, although he fancied he had done okay with Mr. Higgs.

Terrence Higgs, was a minor legend in the Slytherin team dressing room before matches. For the four years before Greg had arrived at Hogwarts he'd never lost a Snitch, to hear him refer to the tactics and ideas of the house team as being antiquated and weak was a bit of a shock. But Greg supposed not everyone could have Draco or his private coaches to help them out. Greg had always been glad that Flint was gone before Draco had agreed to let he and Vince join the team.

A fresh drink in his hand Greg listened to the noise of the pitch as the stands filled with spectators. When the game began that noise became a roar to challenge the crash of waves far below on the beach.

It was a decent game as well, although Greg was sure that second leg of the home and home series was going to be a fairly quick Mudgley Muggle victory. The team seemed decidedly better than the RAA team, but the unpredictable winds that he had first felt when the portkey took them here kept Mudgley from running away with this one.

Two hours, thirty seven minutes twenty one seconds and 6 more violet drinks later the Seeker for MM finally caught the Snitch, and brought the game to an end, MM 330, RAA 160.

Greg was no longer feeling the slight bite of the cool wind off the ocean, and he wandered over to where Zacharias and Terrence were talking.

"Z… ah.. Um, Pardon Mr. Smith," Greg fumbled, his face flushing with embarresment. "If you're not scouting Chaser 4 and 5 from MM you're blind. I mean spectacular skills, there, they adjusted to the wind and went in for a shorter passing game, I mean you normally go for longer passes am I right Mr… uh… Mr Hick er Higgs?"

"You are," Mr. Higgs began, "Right, Mr. Goyle."

"Thank you. Thank you," Greg said. He threw an arm over Zacharias's shoulder "The number 7 fo, er for Rame is okay, but his hand slipped all over that bat, he'd need some work I think. And while he had a couple of nice wallops there were three or four defensive breaks he missed."

"Ah of course Greg," Zacharias said. "Did you enjoy the refreshments?"

"Best stuff I've tasted in some time," Greg said happily missing the look that Zacharias and Terrence shot between them.

"Mr. Goyle, Mr. Smith was just telling me of when you played him. Did you really get two snitch shots in one game?" Terrence asked calmly.

Greg frowned. He hadn't played Quidditch in nearly two years, but yes he had once done that, at least he thought he had, the details were a little blurry at the moment. "Ah yes… just luck," he managed as a response.

"Luck Mr. Goyle?" Terrence Higgs questioned with a tone of slight shock to his words. "You do know that they keep track of statistics like that these days for the top professional clubs, the current player with the most Snitch Shots has only three for their career. And you did it twice in one game?"

"Well, Vince had bet me I couldn't do it once, he'd gotten one the game before," Greg said as some details came back to him. His stomach was starting to suggest that the little sausages he had eaten were not a good idea. "And, Draco said no one could do two in a game, and well, I just wanted to show them I could."

Greg's stomach churned. The details were flooding back now, he wondered if he could push it into the back of his mind. He and Vince had actually bet on the outcome, a private bet.

A bet for a kiss.

After the match against Ravenclaw, where Greg had hit the bludger in such a way that it hit the snitch, a Snitch Shot, twice he had hoped that he and Vince would have been able to talk. But he'd walked into the dressing room after to find Millicent Bulstrode standing there wearing only his cloak and saying that Vince had called in a favor and wanted her to make a man out of Greg to pay off the bet.

He had fled. He hadn't realized what else he could do. He was scared and sick and ashamed and confused and he felt so unwanted despite the nearly naked woman back in the dressing room waiting for him. He had wanted a chance to TALK with Vince, the kiss was just to tease him.

The summer before sixth year, while Greg and Vince had been on holiday with the Malfoys in the Aegean sea, the two young men had kissed. It had been a sudden unexpected and never repeated encounter. They were swimming off an island, and Greg's memory had never quite sorted out the way things had happened. As they had so often before they were tussling in the waves, seeing who could toss the other as part of their trip had been studying Greco-Roman wrestling. Vince had pinned Greg, then leaned in and kissed him. Gently and quick, a light peck on the lips. And then he had sprung up and run off, laughing.

Greg hadn't followed for a half hour, and never had quite regained his equilibrium. By the time they had gotten back to England, Greg had figured out two things. First that the kiss with Vince had been the single most galvanizing moment of his life and second that there was nothing he wanted more than to spend the rest of his life with Vince stealing a kiss here and there.

It was also clearly not to be. Greg had tried to talk to Vince about the kiss two times on the trip and three times at Hogwarts before he had given up. The bet had supposed to have been a way for them to at least talk about it and maybe even have that second kiss. And Vince had chosen to respond by having Millie wait… in that state... for him.

"That's quite incredible Mr. Goyle," Terrence Higgs was saying. "If you ever find yourself out by Mudgley, please stop by the school I'd love to have you hit a bludger or two with the team. Here's my card if you want to reach me."

Greg took the embossed card with "Terrence Higgs, Senior Master of Charms, Mudgle Muggle School, Mudgley, England" and managed to stammer a thank you to Terrence as he turned away. His own stomach was turning to fast for him to say anything more.

"G? You allright? You look pale as a ghost mate." Zacharias said once Mr. Higgs was gone.

"It… ah well it must have been all those mud..ggle borns," Greg said to distract from the fact that his stomach was protesting everything he'd consumed today.

Zacharias sighed, "Look, G. Can we talk a bit?"

"Sure," Greg said, wondering if he was about to be thrown out of this man's house for the second time today. It was a record even for him.

They walked across the pitch and out onto Rame Head proper. The wind picked up and after a bit the air seemed to shimmer as they passed through the Anti-Muggle charms.

"G, you… you don't believe those old tales told by your old… friends? About blood purity and all that?"

Greg started. This was unexpected.

"Z, it's true. Magic is best cast and most purely and powerfully cast by those who are of pure magical blood. I mean it's a known fact that Muggle Borns have smaller craniums than magical born children, that has to impact the ability to cast spells. It's amazing how well many of them do in overcoming that handicap, I mean look at Terrence there. Do you have to be a true pureblood family? Nah I guess not, but you can't say that blood doesn't have something to do…"

Zacharias cut him off abruptly, "That is some of the most pig ignorant nonsense I've ever heard, it is not supported by well anything other than the wishful thinking of a few idiots."

"Now Z…" Greg began with a little heat.

"NO! Listen to ME Greg," Zacharias said. "Granger is by far the most talented witch Hogwarts had seen in nearly a century. Justin Finch-Fletchly just completed his initial Medi-Wizard training in half the time usually anticipated. These are NOT people achieving success in spite of blood. Talent and ability is not something that blood matters."

"Well I guess…" Greg attempted once more.

"Oh no, Greg, look you've been a good friend after school I do appreciate that. We're not house mates so it has been strained at times but I will tell you this now, you are one of the least talented Wizards I've known. You managed what? Four O.W.L.s? Did you even get a N.E.W.T? And you trace your lineage back what? 10 generations on each side? That's impressive, but it doesn't mean anything other than a sense of where you came from." Zacharias blew out his breath in frustration. Greg was still standing there staring at the outburst from his friend.

Greg turned away from Zacharias, "I need to be alone Z. I'll get back to Somerset Crescent on my own."

"The Portkey won't leave for another 30 minutes, but I'm sure Mistress Helyer would be glad to give you access to the Floo network if you like. I'll mention it to her," Zacharias said as Greg continued walking up the steep hill towards the top of Rame Head.

The wind pulled and tugged at Greg's robes, and his mind and stomach just continued to churn. It had been an emotional day to say the least, and he hoped that the top of Rame Head would help him make some sense of this.

Greg didn't go back on the portkey. Or even that night. He spent the night in the small muggle building atop the head. A small fire was within his ability certainly and there was something restorative about the wind, and cold and fire and the rough stone masonry of the building and the booming echoes of the sea below.

Mistress Helyer was only to pleased to have him floo away, apparently his fire had interfered with the beginning astronomy class last night. With an apology and taking a pinch of powder he steeled himself and walked into the emerald flames to Smith House.

"Hello Mr. Goyle," Dinsey said as Greg stepped outside of the fireplace at Smith House.

"Good er… Good Morning Dinsey," Greg said firming his voice. "I need to speak with Master Smith. Where I might find him?"

"Master's reading the Quidditch Reports in the West Sitting Room." Dinsey's high voice replied.

"Er… Thank you Dinsey." This whole politeness thing for house elves was proving difficult. But Greg could do it.

Zacharias was as had been suggested reading the reports of various Quidditch Matches from teams and schools all over Britain and Europe. He glanced up when Greg entered.

"Zacharias," Greg said. "I do not know that I believe or understand your comments fully. But I do know that my Father doesn't need to define me any more."

"Well, that's certainly something G," Zacharias said. "Would you like some help with it?"

"Yes, thank you Z," Greg said. He was never going to be able to pay off the debt he owed Zacharias as a person. However, it was normal situation for the House of Goyle, work closely with a more powerful house. Greg knew that he was potentially tying himself to House Smith, but he was tired of pretending he knew what to say and act.

"Wonderful, I've a cousin who I think you should see. She's magic at helping people with things like this."

"A skillful witch is she?"

"No mate. She's a squib."


	6. Chapter 5: Self Care

Chapter 5

Self Care

 _Two Weeks Later_

His hand trembled slightly as he took a pull from the leather clad flask once more. With a frown he gave the bottle a small shake and sighed. Dinsey must not have filled it all the way as he had asked. Of course it did not matter as there was a second flask next to this one. He'd borrowed the flask from the Smith House Attic, it was a traditional kidney shaped holder in fine black leather, that held two 3 ounce tumblers, of silver covered in even more high fine black leather as well, with a gold suede interior and embossed badger on the outside of each individual flask and the carrying case and Z. S. engraved on the lids.

There was no doubt that the flask was an old Smith Family relic but since it had seemed abandoned in the attic Greg doubted that Zacharias had even known it existed. He made a mental note to mention that he had borrowed it to Zacharias.

It was the fifth time he had made the same mental note.

Greg had grown very fond of this flask and had begun wondering if he could potentially - once he got his finances figured out - get one made in a proper green with a nice serpent coiled on the cover. Of course the best part of this was the enchantment on the flasks which increased their capacity from the visually apparent 3 ounces to a full 25 ounces.

It was unlikely that he had gone through a full fifth in the time it was taking this Muggle death trap to carry him from Diagon Alley to his intended destination. Greg was sure of that. Dinsey must have misunderstood his instructions for filling the flasks. With a careful steadied hand, he removed the second flask, and took a careful sip of the amber liquid within and his nerves calmed.

The muggle train arrived at its final destination a short time later. The whole process of entering and exiting these stations just suggested to him that Muggles were deliberately trying to make their own lives miserable. Clothing wasn't an issue, like most Wizards under the age of forty, Greg had gone to a Hogwarts that encouraged the wearing of simple Muggle clothing under robes and for informal occasions. His Father had described it as one of the sure signs that Hogwarts had become a bad school under the leadership of that Mudblood Lover Albus Dumbledore. Greg hadn't worn Muggle clothing until he had reached the Slytherin common room his first night. Draco had told him to go change and stop embarrassing the entire house, which had brought great gales of laughter from Pansy and Ted and Blaise. Only Daphne and Vince hadn't laughed.

The frigid air revived Greg somewhat and he began the walk in the general direction of his destination. He decided that to forgo the warming charm for a minute as he studied his London A-Z to determine where to find the exact location of this 'cousin' of Zacharias. His path now clear to him, he silently cast the best warming charm he could without his wand as a focus and began the walk through the light accumulation of snow today to his destination.

30 minutes of walking, slipping, and wondering at the condition of the sidewalks later he was standing outside of 14 Milton Ct. Ickenham, Uxbridge. The drive was covered in snow and there appeared to be two narrow shoveled paths across the off white expanse of snow that fell 3 days ago and just got a dusting this morning. One led to the garden gate and the other wound its way to a more cleared area by the front door and a few paces in front of the car park, where a newer Vauxhall Astra sat under its own layer of snow.

His knock went unanswered long enough for a second and even a third knock to occur to him. He had just made the resolution with himself that he would actually knock again and then give it five more minutes before he left to slog his way back to the Tube. No sooner was the resolution made than the door was opened by an average height blond woman, wearing a green and black plaid flannel over a pair of jeans.

"You must be Greg," the blond woman said with a smile. "I normally expect my wizarding friends to come by Floo."

Greg swallowed, "I don't really like fire, Miss."

"Come in Greg," she said and turned and walked into the front foyer. "You can hang your coat in the closet there," she said gesturing to a small door immediately next to the front one.

"Er, I ain't wearing no coat Miss," Greg replied stepping onto the mat and swinging the door closed.

"No, I can see that Greg," she said. "Your shirt and trousers are certainly better than some of the clients who I see at home, I would have been glad to have you come to the office, but I am sure there are matters of a magical nature that we will need to discuss, and obliviating my entire staff and partners is not something I want the ministry doing."

"Er...ah.. Miss…" Greg began not quite sure how to ask what he wanted to ask.

"Follow me to the parlor please Greg," she said with a note of efficient command in her voice that reminded him strongly of Lord Malfoy. Greg was following her before he recognized that he had moved from just inside the front door where he had been nervously shifting his feet trying to find a way to stand that conveyed that this house, this place, and this squib in front of him were all beneath his notice.

They entered a room, that Greg guessed given her leading him there was called a parlor. It was dominated by a brick fireplace with a mantel made from wood reaching nearly a foot into the room. The poker and tongs stood to the left of the fireplace, holding up a screen with brass finish that Greg guessed normally resided in front of the open mouth of the fireplace. The flames within were a cheery yellow and an earthenware cylinder stood on the mantel with the Department of Weights and Measures seal flashing orange on the side.

"I'm called Charlotte," the woman said settling into a comfortable looking armchair in front of the fire. "Won't you have a seat Greg?"

Greg continued to stand transfixed in the door to the room. The yellow and orange flames flickered across the log casting shadows and heat into the room. And despite the crack and roar of the fire, despite the warming charm which he had still not dismissed, despite the inviting and comfortable looking sofa, Greg shivered.

"Greg?" Charlotte said standing. "We could chat in the kitchen? It's just down here…" Greg gratefully followed her further down the corridor to an eat in kitchen. Greg sat down at the small breakfast table feeling somehow oversized in the kitchen, even with its multiple windows looking out onto the back garden.

"I'm sorry Greg, you mentioned you don't like fire," Charlotte said. "We can chat here much more comfortably. Would you like some tea?"

"No thanks Miss Charlotte," Greg said. His ears were still impossibly filled with the roar of the fire down the hall. Charlotte came over to the small breakfast table and sat across from him, a mug of tea leaking silver vapors of aromatic steam into the air.

Greg shook his head slightly and dropped the warming charm. The temperature drop felt immediately blissful to Greg, and the sound of the fire faded. He realized that Charlotte had asked him a question.

"Charlotte," he said struggling for the self control that should have been second nature. "Do you recognize me?"

"Recognize you? No. I'm sorry, should I?"

"I get recognized a lot, I thought you would recognize me. Zacharias said you're the best. I figure that means you're one of those squibs that just hangs around magic non stop so you can be close to the feel of the thing. I guess that means you should recognize me. Does this help 'Carrow's Crony'? The Daily Prophet ran that headline."

"Greg," Charlotte said, "I really don't recognize you. I agreed to meet with you because I was told that you could use some help. And considering you said earlier you don't like fire and then nearly froze at the site of my hearth I would say that is true."

Charlotte stood up from the small table to pour some milk from a pitcher on the kitchen island into her tea. She turned back to face him and the kindly look that had dominated her face flashed into one of steel.

"But you need to understand that I am not okay with that type of language. It may be acceptable in areas of the magical realm to ridicule and demean those who do not meet a certain standard of magical ability. You may have meant no offense in your statement. But I am guessing that what you said about my lack of magical talent, a 'squib' was an attempt to harm me?"

"Harm you?" Greg was shocked.

"You felt threatened by the simple fact of entering my home, then the first place I suggested meeting made you feel attacked and threatened. In other clients I would say it was an attack against their masculinity or ethnic belief's. For you Greg I imagine the shock of feeling attacked by a person of limited magical ability made you worried about your own ability.

"And so, you threw words meant to be hurtful and painful at me because curses or hexes wouldn't be appropriate. You called me a squib, suggested that I was a "magical groupie" and insisted that I recognize you. I see that as an attempt to harm. What do you see Greg?"

"I…" Greg swallowed. "I certainly never…" He paused. The pause lengthened. Had he meant it? Why had he said those things? The idea that his words, even words as normal seeming as he had said could wound? Could be weapons.

Greg had spent seven years in Slytherin house. He was not the smartest or fastest with a quip and as such had been the butt of many a sharp verbal jibe from his yearmates or others. Granted it had never been thought acceptable for a person from another house to criticize him, he _was_ a Slytherin, but inside the house he was fair game.

Words could wound. Often more deeply than actions. Words from friends and words from strangers. Greg did know that, and he knew it true on a very deep level. His father had been the first to call him a squib and with the possible exception of Lord Malfoy, there was almost no one who could have matched Greg's father for poisoned words.

He glanced at where Charlotte stood sipping her tea and watching him. This small woman had been right that words could hurt, but was she right that Greg had attacked her because of how he felt? He turned his face and body away and began to think.

How had he been feeling. The fire… the fire had been so bright, so hot, so overwhelming. He had felt like he had been being consumed in the flames even from the distance of at least 10 feet. He couldn't seem to shake the feeling of that heat. Had it been magically enhanced somehow? It was possible, perhaps Charlotte had a wizard child? Or Neighbor. The fire had been roaring, screaming at him. She had done that delibrately gotten a friend to cast an enchantment so that when the Carrow's Crony had shown up he'd be tortured more thinking of the friend who had died consumed in flames and hear his voice. It was the only explanation for this! She hated him!

He turned his face back to where she stood calmly watching him. Her tea placed at her side. His anger seemed to roil inside him and a sneer painted his lips. He opened his mouth to spite his vile out at this woman.

And stopped.

A...thought...was hesitantly reaching through the fog of rage and anger inside his mind. It was a small thought. A quiet thought. One better suited to a Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff, not a Slytherin. It simply said to him that each time he stared at a fire he felt the same way. He heard the same scream, the same rush of emotions whenever he wasn't careful where he looked in Smith House. He once had a goblin escort him out of Gringotts because he had apparently been disturbing a large number of customers arriving via flu.

The thought was now a full grown obvious TRUTH. He did react this way to fire. And if he reacted that way to fire then all his rage at Charlotte was wrong.

"Miss Charlotte," Greg managed. "I am… I am sorry. I, rather it seems, you, right. Sorry. I making a muddle of this." Greg took a steadying breath while Miss Charlotte continued to watch him. Her eyes were what he noticed now more than anything else, a pale blue they did not reflect back on him the way those of most of his associates had ever since his release from Azkaban.

"Miss Charlotte," Greg began again. "You are correct in that I came here because I need some help. I do hope you can help me. What you said I did here, that's what I want to stop. I, look, I was raised with blood purism as my main source of succor." He shook his head. "But it can't be, there is too much that argues how wrong it is, and I… I guess these days… I feel my soul that blood purism is wrong. Yet I do stupid things, like insult old schoolmates, or suggest you're somehow not important. And it's buried inside me and I just want him out."

Charlotte moved over to sit across from Greg. "Well then Greg, lets see if we can't help you together. I won't lie to you, non-magical mental healing like this will take some time. But I think if you and work together we can help you.

"Now… tell me about yourself Greg."

"What do you want to know?"

"Whatever you want to tell me?"

"I," what did Greg want to tell this woman. He wasn't sure what he did want to share or should. He fell back on an old maxim drilled into him by the Slytherin prefects in his third year, namely 'If someone ever doubts you claim credit for all of Slytherin House, another Slytherin will know the truth and the other houses are too scared to ask.'

"I went to Hogwarts, Slytherin House like my father, of course," Greg began his story.


	7. Chapter 6: The Fallen

Chapter 6

The Fallen

 _Two Months Two Weeks and Two Days Later_

" _... it's a dreary day here at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry helping set a somber tone. Although in all frankness I am sure we all know it is not needed. There is Minister Shacklebolt, wearing his official robes of office, with the sash of the Order of Merlin shimmering even in this weak light. The Minister is making his way past the gates and towards the official reception at the main door of the castle itself…,"_ the somber voice of Dan McLeod was floating on the early spring zephyrs all along Diagon Alley.

" _As a reminder to our listeners today's program will start with a few comments from Headmistress Minerva McGonagall in the Great Hall and then Mr. Simon Creevey will start the walk to the carriages, accompanied by his son Dennis, a sixth year Prefect… who I hear has been tapped to be Head Boy next year. Cho that's one of the new changes to this venerable institution that Headmistress McGonagall has instituted, right?"_

" _Yes, Dan you are correct,"_ Cho Chang's voice more up tempo than McLeod's famous sonorous tones was now blaring from every wireless in all of London it seemed to Greg. " _I spoke with the Headmistress earlier this year when she announced her decision and she told me then the idea was simply to allow a brief period of adjustment for those who would be taking leadership roles in the new year, a way of preserving traditions, Dan."_

" _Preserving traditions by helping ensure they are not forgotten. Thank you Cho,"_ McLeod continued. " _Mr. Creevey, a milkman, will lead the procession to Hogsmeade to the recently opened memorial park there. Listeners may recall that the Wizengamot spent the better part of the last year in the debate as to the type of memorial. As we approach the start of the procession Lee Jordan has a special segment on the memorial. Lee…"_

Almost every shop that crammed itself onto the main alley path showed the Hogwarts Crest, and bunting off yellow and black, blue and bronze and red and gold was on prominent display. Greg had been walking to work as he did every morning when he had stumbled on the Diagon 'Fallen Heroes' parade. He had somehow forgot what day it was and so was taken aback by the blockage.

" _...Andromeda found herself raising her grandson alone. I remember reporting on the death of her husband for Potterwatch, I was struck even then by the steel that stood within Mrs. Tonks,"_ Lee's voice had a more processed tone suggesting it had been pre-recorded long before the day's festivities as one would expect.

Greg had not truly forgotten. He couldn't truly forget. This day was a weight tied to his soul. He could with practice toss the weight up and be relieved from it briefly but when it came down the weight was all the more painful and heavy to carry. Last year he'd floated the weight and himself away on an absolute sea of drink. He had woken up in St. Mungo's three days later having drunk himself into an alcoholic coma. According to the Medi-Witch in charge of his care it had taken 5 Blood Cleansing Potions until he had been stable.

" _...calling in her privilege as a scion of the Ancient and Noble House of Black Andromeda Tonks rose and proposed that since so many of those who had been slain were young and noted for their creative problem solving the only appropriate way to remember them was with a constantly new, constantly evolving artistic exhibition space to honor the future they represented."_

But today Greg had 'forgotten' that it was May 2. He had 'forgotten' that the entire wizarding world - or at least that part of it that lived on this isle known as Britannia - would be celebrating the victory at Hogwarts. He had 'forgotten' that today was the day so many students of his year and older and younger had fallen. He had 'forgotten' today was the day that dear 'Uncle' Antonin and 'Aunt' Bella had died. He had 'forgotten' that today marked two years since he had last spoken to the only part of him that mattered.

'Forgotten.'

He needed a drink.

" _...famed Swedish artiste, Sluffen. The Ministry however did not anticipate the backlash from the public for their suggestion of the first exhibit. Ginny Weasley - a former member of Dumbledore's Army, sister to one of the slain and daughter of two of the most senior surviving members of the Order of the Phoenix - wrote an Op-Ed letter to the Daily Prophet accusing the Ministry of willfully misunderstanding the purpose of the proposed space as a place to celebrate the new and every changing world that these fallen had envisioned. Indeed two weeks later the Daily Prophet held a full page anonymous add that called on the Ministry to open up the choice to the people. As part of my investigation for this piece I was able to determine that the add was paid for by an intermediary working for Draco Malfoy. To the Ministry, when even your allies and enemies join together to call for a course of action the best bet was to accede."_

"...living one day at a time…" Greg had mumbled to himself as he retreated to the relative safety of Somerset Crescent. Sobriety was not coming easy to him. He _needed_ a drink. It wasn't healthy for a man to not drink at all. No Ashwinder Ale, no firewhiskey, nothing.

" _... when the votes were counted, a surprise winner, Dennis Creevey's suggested 'My Brother's Eye' curated collection of the photographs of Colin Creevey through 6 years of Hogwarts…"_

"I can stay sober for the next five minutes," Greg said, pacing the crescent. The buzz of wireless sets still all around him. And somehow, agonizingly he made it through those five minutes, and then he said it again. Now it became a battle of wills inside him. The insistence that a drink should happen and the refusal to let it.

" _...the official memorial garden, named now the Phoenix Garden, with its black obelisk inscribed with the names of the fallen, and the 57 white burning flames that form a circle around it, each of which will go out once a day for 10 minutes to mark the death of the person they honor, and will be relit in the color of that person's House for the next 50…"_

The radio's incessant drone of remembrance and celebrated noble loss caused Greg to retreat back inside Smith House. Slamming the door on the streets full of revelers he backed away as if the vibrant happy celebration could burn him.

Burn.

Oh _Vince._

Eyes full of acid tears Greg spun around and charged into library to the left of the entryway. There would often be a decanter of wine or sherry available for the entertainment of guests set up just… _There!_ Greg made a dash to the side drum table that held the glass bottle and several heavy cut glass glasses.

With a flash of light and _whomp_ of force, Greg was thrown back a few feet from the table. His vision seemed to darken, and his ears filled with a rushing noise. The veil that descended across his thoughts then he had experienced before and he knew it was not going to be easily lifted. With a snarl that tore from his chest Greg threw himself towards the table again.

Magic circles have a long history of use as protective charms. They have seeped into muggle culture enough that common table salt may be depicted holding at bay the beasts of the never realms. And those distinctions are not far wrong. But even wizards know that for a circle to hold out a wizard in all their power it takes more than a circle of loose salt on the floor. Magic Circles get elaborate and expensive for wizards and the more elaborate and the more powerful you want yours to be the more expensive it will be. Smith House only paid for the best.

The inlaid silver circle in the front hallway had held safe Zacharias's ancestors in 1666 when a flight of 6 Welsh Green dragon's housed illegally at Henry Morgan's menagerie in Diagon Alley had escaped. 2 of the dragons had left Diagon Alley and it's environs eventually causing the Great Fire of London, but 4 had remained and spent their flames and might against the various institutions of the Alley. At one time 3 of them had been battering at the barrier that Zevulun Smith had installed three years before and within which he was now protecting his family. Eventually all 6 Dragons were subdued, and divided between being returned to the wild and being turned over to Gringotts for extra security.

The drum tables throughout the house were all inlaid with silver circles of protection that could be sealed by the house's master against anything requested. They were slightly less powerful versions of the circle in the hall and they had never failed.

Which is why Zacharias was so surprised when he returned to Smith House that a half hour later to find Dinsey waiting for him in the front hall and a trail of wooden splinters, down feathers, ink and shattered glass leading to the library.

"Dinsey," Zacharias said. "Did Mr. Goyle come back drunk again?"

"No Master," Dinsey replied her hands clasped behind her back as she stared at the floor. "Mr. Goyle was not drunk when he came home."

Catching the phrasing Zacharias asked, "Is he drunk now Dinsey?"

"Er, Master, Dinsey is not sure."

As Zacharias walked slowly over to the doors to the library he said, "What happened Dinsey?"

"Mr. Goyle came home early, Master. Dinsey was worried as Mr. Goyle walked right by without saying 'Hello' and Mr. Goyle's been very good at noticing and saying 'Hello' to Dinsey the past few months. Mr. Goyle was staggering and very white the face, but was not drunk, the door alarms did not trigger at all," Dinsey gave a small gesture to the small alarms that Zacharias had installed to alert him if G was drinking again.

If Zacharias could help it G was not going to drink himself into an early grave. He had reached the library now and the trail of detritus that was outside was nothing compared to what lay within. Not a stick of furniture was untouched most of it was absolutely destroyed and better off for use by first years learning transfiguration than for its original purposes. He could if he squinted just make the vague outlines of what had once been the slant top writing desk he stored here, and the pillows the had graced the bay window were nothing but rags with bits of fluff and feather attached.

"Go on Dinsey," Zacharias said growing numb looking at the wreck of a library.

"Yes Master, Mr. Goyle went straight to the library and muttered to himself. Dinsey believes that Mr. Goyle was looking for _alcohol_ sir," the hiss that Dinsey gave to the word alcohol was very clear in his thoughts about drink.

"And then Mr. Goyle set off the Circle on the table," Dinsey said. "Dinsey became scared because Mr. Goyle then growled like a bear and Dinsey ran and hid till her Master Smith came home. Dinsey will tidy up the mess Master, just please take care of Mr. Goyle."

Two steps into the library revealed Greg's prone form curling around a small object. Surrounding Greg the devastation grew noticeably more marked. Of the drum table and it's contents there was no sign except for a twisted piece of silver metal looking like a discarded bicycle wheel. Zacharias approached softly, carefully letting his want drop into his hand from his sleeve carrier, he was finally able to see that his friend was not unconscious like he thought and that the object that Greg was curled around was the decanter of firewhiskey Zacharias kept in this room for visiting guests to enjoy. Two more steps brought Zacharias to Greg's side and showed him one other thing.

The decanter was full.

Greg gradually became aware of Zacharias shaking his shoulder gently, urging him to get up to respond to the world that didn't have Vince anymore, a world that hated Greg. He tried to ignore the gentle but incessant pleading to sit up and his hands clutched the decanter to his belly even tighter, as if by pinning it there he could stop the smell, the urge, the need to suck every last drop of that liquid to experience its release. Greg just needed a bloody drink.

"Ah… Z…" Greg croaked through a throat gone raw with screaming. "I… I'm terrible sorry about the library mate. I just needed this bottle. And the damned wireless… See it's today. You, know. TODAY."

"I know G," Zacharias said on hand resting on the huge shoulders in front of him. "I had to go to that ghastly viewing at Ernie's place."

"I need this drink so badly Zacharias," Greg rocked back and forth cradling the full decanter of fire whiskey, feeling the weight of the alcohol and the smell infuse him. "I needed it so badly, I couldn't think of him anymore. And the drink it makes him go away. You see that right Z? The drink drives him away."

"Of course I see that G, no worries," Zacharias said in a soothing voice.

Greg stopped rocking suddenly, he sat up right the decanter clutched firmly in his hands and to his stomach.

"And then I remembered something Miss Charlotte said," Greg's voice was deep and clear, all traces of his normal slurring of speech gone. "She asked me who else remembered Vince and when I said I wasn't sure she said it must be hard for me to feel like the only one keeping him alive.

"I don't want him to go, I can't kill him inside of me with this anymore… I don't want to lose him forever."

With a musical crack the decanter shattered. Zacharias leaped back in alarm at the sound. Greg himself simply lay his head back, the pain of the glass shards in his stomach mixing with the alcohol and blood running over his hands.


	8. Chapter 7: Old Habits

Chapter 7

Old Habits...

 _Two Weeks Later_

The flag flapped above Greg's head partially obscuring his view of the clock higher up. The spring breeze continued its path down the street and he saw the clock show that it was nearly 7 o'clock in the evening. He could finally allow himself to go inside the stone edifice. It was a silly rule, and one he expected to crumble before too long, especially if the weather grew noticeably cooler or warmer, but Greg had mentally convinced himself that if he only arrived less than a few minutes before the meeting it wasn't as if he actually needed the meeting.

This would be Greg's second meeting. He had come for the first time last week when Miss Charlotte suggested that he should. He had stopped around for his appointment on Thursday the 4th and they had ended up talking about what happened on the 2nd. After nearly three full months of meeting weekly with Miss Charlotte, Greg felt he was starting to understand some of what she said to him. He still got angry for no reason, and he still felt the need of that drink, but he was finally starting to see a world where he could meet a new Witch or Wizard and not immediately try to judge them as mudblood or not. Small steps yes, but he felt their momentum.

And what she had said to him that Thursday was basically to find a crew. Oh, she had not phrased it that way, but Greg had spent the next hour after his meeting with her puzzling on and thinking on what he had said and what she had said to truly get to grips with the situation. Often what he found was that when he did this thinking he could find the concept that worked for him. In this case "expand your support networks to include others looking to make similar changes" translated to "get yerself a crew."

So Greg walked into the church and down the side stairs to a basement crammed with offices and little meeting rooms that provide the bedrock of a church. The meeting was an attempt to find a new crew, one of his choosing, not Draco's, not even Vince's. He joined the small group of 14 men and women and he listened. He had done nothing but listen at the meeting last week, and this week, well this week he was going to share.

At the indicated time, Greg stood and walked towards the front of the group, nerves began to make themselves known - his stomach still felt tender from where Justin Finch-Fletchley (who had apparated immediately at Zacharias's urgent Floo call) had removed the glass shards he had ground in on May 2nd - and he kept going. All eyes may be watching him. All eyes may be judging him. But all eyes here had his same problem.

He moved his bulky frame behind the lectern, glanced out to the others there and immediately looked down. Then with a shaky breath he began.

"Hello, my name is Greg, and I'm an alcoholic."

Two and half hours later, his stomach warmed by coffee and not firewhiskey. Greg walked away from the church making his way slowly back to The Leaky Cauldron. While he was approaching the small pub, looking as ever like a building that had been built normal sized and then squished between a record shop and bookstore, he heard a voice behind him.

"Missster Goyle," the strangely highly pitched voice hissed. "Out for an evening constitutional amongst the flithy mudbloods of London, we was wondering when we might catch a glimpse of you."

Greg had stopped when he first heard the voice behind him. It was a voice he knew well, and one he had never expected to hear again, certainly not outside of a Inquisitorial Squad reunion of some sort, an event that was likely to never happen. He half turned and looked behind him.

"G'evening Milli," he said to her. "Been a bit, eh?"

"Oh you could say that Gorilla," Millicent Bulstrode said using one of the nicknames that Draco had created for him. Draco had always liked to give Vince and he new nicknames every few months, Vince had loved them. Vince had also gotten things like "Killer" and "Crusher" and "Violet" the one time Draco had wanted to try flowers. (Draco had tried explaining this to Greg as the idea that big scary men with cute, little flowery names were even scarier, but Greg never had really agreed.) Because of the alliteration in Greg's own name Draco seemed to feel the need to keep that going so Greg became "Goon" and "Gorilla" and "Geranium". Greg hated the names.

"It's been just over 2 years since we've seen each other," Millicent continued. "I'm rather surprised, you've been out now for what? A year and a half? And you never reached out to any of us? To Draco or Pansy or anyone?"

"It's been exactly 500 days since I got out of Azkaban, Millie" Greg knew that throwing her nickname which she hated back at her was simply spite for her use of his, but at the moment the spite tasted good. "As I recall you didn't serve any time their right? Imperiused into doing it all is what I heard. So off you walked with a suspension of magic being the only punishment."

"Greg, dear, calm down," Millicent said. "I'm not trying to suggest that you didn't suffer. In fact your sentencing made it easier for the rest of us, surely you know that this places us in your debt."

"Goodbye Ms. Bulstrode," Greg managed around the anger that was building inside him. He turned and began walking purposefully towards the Leaky Cauldron. Millicent hurried to walk beside him.

"Greg, Greg, Greg," she said laughing slightly. "You've grown a backbone! On you it's devilishly handsome. All I'm saying is come join some old friends for quiet chat, a bite of proper food, even a drink."

"Look Ms. Bulstrode," Greg said stopping his walk just across the street from the Leaky Cauldron. "I'm, tired this is a hard time of year for all…" his voice trailed off as he stared incredulously at Millicent.

She had stopped beside him and had drawn her wand, which she was idly spinning in the middle of muggle London. Acting as if she had not a care in the world that passerbys could see it or the small stream of green sparks it was trailing through the air.

"How... how did you get a wand?" Greg felt as if he had eaten a piece of ton-tongue toffee. "Did you go Greengrass?"

"Oh that old thing?" she asked as she brought the wand to an abrupt halt in the perfect 'en garde' position for wizard dueling. "A friend gave it to me, in fact, he's the one who organized this little get together I think you should come see and hear him. He's got some strong opinions about things like the Greengrass Bill."

Before Greg could give voice to another objection Millicent continued, "I've got a portkey right here, we can be there and back in no time at all. Besides, I know Vincent wants to see you."

Greg's mind stopped working. He sat down suddenly on the sidewalk since it seemed his knees didn't want to hold him. "Wha...what did you say?" He managed after a minute of struggling for any type of thought.

"I said come see Vince." Millicent squatted down beside him. "He is your best friend after all."

The silence between them lengthened. Greg avoided looking at her, there was no reason to expose himself to Legilimency if he could avoid it. Finally he stood up and brought himself to say what he had been thinking.

"Vince. Is. Dead. He died in a stream of fiendfyre that he couldn't control," a deep inhalation of breath helped to calm his nerves slightly.

"Perhaps… Greg, you know the only way you'll be able to get closure on this is to come with me. I promise it will be worth your while."

Greg couldn't help himself. Vince was dead. Vince was gone. He knew this. He had the hole in his soul to prove it. And yet like a drowning man clinging to the belief that the dark shape he sees a yard off is a log he grabbed it.

He just hoped it _was_ a log and not a shark.

2 portkey trips later he stood next to Millicent outside another muggle church surrounded for most of its length by a wrought iron fence and thin strip of green. The buildings surrounding it were dark finally but had the look of frequent use. With a sneer Millicent walked past the wrought iron fence and stopped in front of the slightly imposing wrought iron gate that stood across the narrow drive that led onto the church grounds.

With a casual tap of her wand on the gates a smaller gate appeared outlined in the middle. Greg knew that this gate would lead somewhere else on the grounds of the church, somewhere that could not be reached through other means. It was a specialty of Mr. D's Ironworks, and Greg had shipped several pairs like this gate in his time there.

He follow Millicent through the magical part of the gate and watched as it sealed itself once more behind them. A short walk down a dark industrial corridor brought them to a large circular room. There were no windows in the walls and a very small hole at the top served as makeshift chimney for the smoke from the torches lighting the room, and the fire that was smouldering in the middle.

As Millicent had promised there were a few people about, mostly dressed in black muggle clothing, and food was available on a small table on one side of the room. It reminded Greg strongly of the VIP viewing booth he and Zacharias had watched the match between Rame Academy and Mudgley Muggle.

The main difference here was that he knew most of the scattered occupants. The towering figure of Thorfin Rowle, and the slighter one of Miles Bletchley stood there chatting quietly. Peregrine Derrick had his back to the door, but Greg still recognized him from the slanted way he held his right shoulder. As Greg walked further into the room a source of light that was not the fire became clear. It was silvery and stood taller than Greg by two inches, and Greg knew in his marrow that the figure when it turned around he'd see the face and flat nose and small eyes he had fallen asleep dreaming about for the past four years.

 _Vince._

Greg stopped. He couldn't move. It was as if a witch had cast a wordless full body bind spell on him. Vincent was there, his ghostly visage happy as his mouth curled up in the half sneer smile he had always used. The emerald green of his robes didn't reflect clearly through the transparent nature of his state, but the smile was the same. With a casual wave at Derrick the figure moved to where Greg was rooted. And all Greg could think was, "It's his smile, that's the tooth he chipped when we ran drills 3 days before the battle"

"Hullo Greg," Vince's voice floated out of the figure. "You look like you've seen a ghost," Vince continued breaking out in great peeling booms of laughter.

Others around the room smirked at the joke and the disquiet etched clearly on Greg's face. All of a sudden Greg was struck by massive wave deja vu for any one of a hundred times that Draco, or Pansy or Vince had used him as the butt of one of their jokes. He stepped back and bounced off Millicent who had stepped up behind him.

"Oh relax Greg," Vince's ghost said. "I am so glad to see you! About time you joined us."

"You're…," he swallowed. "You're a ghost Vince."

"Once again you have mastered the obvious Goyle," Derrick said looming up next to the tall ghost of Vincent Crabbe. "Did you really attack Draco?"

"You assaulted Mr. Malfoy, Greg?" Vince's ghost asked?

"Yes," Greg breathed. "I did." The feel of the impact of the metal chair leg on Draco's ankle flashed through Greg's mind. He had done it for the man that stood before him. For the memory that stood before him.

"Well about time you realized what a traitor he was," the ghost stated. "You know he was betraying us all the time."

Greg swallowed any comment that he could make. He was no longer that any of Draco's actions had been wrong. At the same time he did not regret the attack on Draco, there was only a numbness inside him at the thought.

Derrick looked at Greg and grunted, "I guess you're okay Goyle. Come on, he's about to explain."

Greg followed flanked by Millicent and the ghost of Vince - the ghost of himself in another life. The other folks gathered around the fire in the middle of the room and stood eyes focused ahead and arms clasped behind their backs. Greg was only the fifth flesh and blood person there.

A final figure swept into the room from the passage, dressed in a black muggle three piece suit, a black shirt and an emerald green tie and with a long dark green trench coat worn over it all. The face was not one Greg recognized.

"Good you're all here, and I see Ms. Bulstrode brought Goyle. Excellent," the man began with almost no preamble. "Has anyone spoken to you of who and what we are Goyle?"

"No, ah, sir," Greg said adding the honorific. This all felt strangely familiar to him, a group waiting for the direction of a singular leader. It was how his year had organized itself at Hogwarts. Draco was the leader, everyone else followed his lead, occasionally folks like Blaise would voice differences but in terms of final say, Draco's word was law. It wasn't until he became focused outside of this during his 6th year that there had been any cracks.

"Ah, well Goyle, we are simply a group of witches and wizards who have been wronged by society. We've all been at various times deprived of our wands, deprived of our identities, deprived of the very essence of magic by a bureaucratic cancer of half-blooded, incompetent weaklings. This is no longer a society Goyle. This is nothing short of chains!

"You're a prime example Goyle, you did nothing but follow the instruction of your teachers. And they think they have a right to steel your magic? How much of what has plagued you these years has been because of their perverted sense of justice? The same is true of Ms. Bulstrode here. I, personally, have been punished my entire life because of who my father was. Not mind you for what I did, but for what he did. The day the wild wizard Moody slew my father, letter was torn up in front of my eyes. I became the first one in 14 generations to not attend Hogwarts."

"Who are you?" Greg asked, his mind a whirl. This man talked like Zacharias, fast, but unlike with Zacharias there was an underlying intensity to this mans words that burned with each of them. It felt to Greg as if this man was on a short tether about to explode.

"My name is Gavin Rosier, Goyle. And this group, our name we've taken from the enemies of Rome whose sack lasted a fortnight. Those who know that even if the buildings the key is the destruction of the institutions. We are Vandals!"

Greg felt the revulsion that all wizards would at the name, how much magical knowledge had been lost in those 2 weeks that Genseric's forces had occupied Rome. This was not a name that would be selected to gain recruits, it was meant for one thing, to strike fear. And Greg admitted to himself that it was working.

As for this man himself… if he was truly Gavin, that made him the closest thing Greg had to family. Greg's father had no siblings, but his grandfather had a sister who had married into the Rosier family, Evan Rosier had been a person his father talked about at length how his death had been a shock. Although Greg remembered more how this comment was always followed by his father grumbling how he had been forgotten in Evan's will. Gavin had visited his father once when Greg was 7, he had just graduated from Durmstrang and had come back to visit England, and all that Greg remembered clearly was a shouting match which ended with Gavin storming out. Greg had not seen him since.

"Goyle, Cousin. I am glad you've come tonight, Mr. Crabbe has spoken long about the dedication and loyalty that you showed in school, and that perseverance is what we need now."

"I don't understand," Greg said looking from the others present and especially the spectral figure of his friend next to him. "What is it you seek to do?"

"We seek revenge Cuz. And the way to do that… to make them feel the oppression we have felt at their hand, is to end the ridiculous International Statute of Secrecy. We are going to reveal the wizarding world to the Muggles. And when the muggles take control then every wizard and witch will know the same pain and hatred we've known."

"That…" Greg couldn't think of what to say. This idea was so far beyond reasonable it was unbelievable. And yet the group around him was deadly serious. He could see it flowing from their faces. Derrick and Bulstrode and Rowle and Bletchley all were nodding in agreement with Gavin.

"I know that this is a great deal to process cousin," said Gavin kindly. "Why don't you take a walk with Mr. Crabbe and think about it while I discuss other matters with my other friends here."

Greg nodded. He walked down the hallway towards where the magical gate lay, one hand on the wall to steady himself. The tactile sensation helped him feel connected in a way he had not in the chamber behind him. He took a deep breath trying to find a center. There had been so many shocks - Vince a ghost, and his cousin Gavin - that the idea of destroying the International Statute of Secrecy seemed merely a small matter.

After his breathing started to come more naturally to him he turned back to look down the hallway. Voices half heard and indistinct rose and fell in the chamber there and coupled with shadows on cast on the walls by the participants to make this seem some neolithic spell. Vince then walked out of the wall a pace away, causing Greg to jump in surprise.

"Merlin's beard, you startled me," Greg said.

"You're not as on your guard as you used to be Greg," the ghost replied. "Have you been growing soft?"

Greg laughed, "No, although I suppose a bed every night and no one threatening to beat me is more comfortable than school or home used to be."

"Living the life of luxury? Tell me did you settle down with that half blood Witch who used to stare at you? Tracey wasn't it? She was a nice little package… I can understand you slumming it with her…she always did show excellent grip on a wand, eh?"

"I never was interested in Ms. Davis, Vince. You know that," Greg said. He had forgotten how casually crude his friend could be at times. "What's going on here Vince. Why haven't you looked for me."

"Why didn't you look for me?" Vince's ghost shot back. "I hung around Hogwarts for a while and then got bored, they're so stuck up there now, no one cared what I had to say, and even Peeves wouldn't take my suggestions so I split. Eventually I ran into Bletchley and ended up coming to the Vandals."

"I was under arrest and guard Vince, they weren't going to let me out to wander Hogwarts."

"Sure… and you never came back to visit once you were free," Vince's ghost said, with a touch of bitterness. "I sacrificed myself to save you from the fiendfyre your wand started and you…"

"Hang on a sec Vince," Greg interrupted. "I didn't cast the fyre, you did. Draco said you did against Ron Weasley. I got hit by that stunner and never woke up."

"Draco lied Greg," Vince's ghost explained. "Draco always lied. He was just trying to make me seem the bad one. Besides, you've never been stopped by 'one' stunner before. Except maybe when you're not focused, you cast the fiendfyre Greg, and we had it controlled, like the Carrow's taught us, two wizards both concentrating. 'Till Draco betrayed us and he, that mudblood and that blood traitor cast Stupefy on you. You went down and it was all I could do then to get you to the door."

"Oh…" Greg managed. He had read the reports of the battle of course, the detailed testimony of Draco, of Ms. Granger, Mr. Weasley and Mr. Potter regarding the skirmish in the Room of Requirement. That Draco would lie to save himself Greg didn't doubt, but that the others would support that lie didn't seem to make any sense to Greg. Why?

"I'm really glad you're around Greg. I think you and Gavin can help each other. And I know if you help him with this one he'll be glad to assist you in getting a new wand. Apparently the Americans have a plethora of cheap fine quality wands for sale with no questions asked."

"Assist in what Vince," Greg asked. "He's not actually said what he wants to do other than destroy the International Statute on Secrecy. There's been nothing resembling a plan mentioned here. You were the one who told me to pay attention to when the fluff extolling virtues outweighed the actual details."

"Oh, didn't Gavin say? Sorry, it's been so central to our planning for months now that I guess we don't really talk about this first step that often. Gavin has mapped out a plan in which the more magical chaos we create the harder it is for the ministry to contain. We'll be hitting and destroying Anti-Muggle Charms and other protections at a series of magical businesses throughout London."

"Specifically," Gavin's voice came from the end of the corridor where he stood staring down the short hall at Vince and Greg. "We will be destroying the Ministry Potionworks in Hammersmith."

"Think of it Greg," Vince's ghost was saying. "Every potion that St Mungo's uses to treat and cure people is brewed and housed there, not to mention all of the droughts and antidotes and poisons used by all other members of the ministry. Imagine, we blow it up and not only are there suddenly hundreds and thousands of witches and wizards having to seek medical care at muggle facilities all over Britain, but all of those ingredients being scattered. Obliviators will have to rely strictly on their wand work, no convenient 'Here drink this tea miss.' The Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures will not be able to control them. Magical Britain will start spilling over in so many ways that nothing will stop it."

"All I want you to do Goyle, is cause a small distraction, specifically fly a broom for a bit. I understand you're good at that, no? Then I can guarantee you a new wand."

Greg paused. His mind was spinning too fast for him to process everything that was going on. He couldn't keep up, he was trying and while some of the things Ms. Charlotte had been teaching had helped, this felt to familiar. To comfortable to be fought. This was a way for Greg to find acceptance again that wasn't gonna take all of his life. He could be a real wizard again, one his father would have been proud of.

Greg nodded his agreement.


	9. Chapter 8: Die Hard

_Author's Note: My apologies that it took this long for this chapter to come out. Holidays. Thanks so much for reading this story and don't hesitate to leave reviews!_

Chapter Eight

...Die Hard

 _Seventeen Days Later_

The tape recorder shut off of the third time in five minutes and this time purple smoke rose from the device. With curse the woman at the foot of the bed picked it up and tried to eject the tape, but she dropped it immediately with a gasp of pain.

"Damn thing's scalded me," she exclaimed.

"Let the MediWitch take a look ma'am," the calm young man standing beside the bed said.

"No, please, can we note have her come back? I'll be allright. I think," said the woman.

"Allow me," said the younger man. He drew a wand from inside his standard issue Auror robes. With a few quick motions and a muttered incantation the red on the woman's hand began to be reduced significantly.

"Thank you," she said voice sounding strained.

"Glad to be of help ma'am," the younger man replied dexterously sliding his wand back inside his robes.

"And, alright, I guess we can use your archaic system," she snapped.

Greg watched as the younger man, who Greg knew to be of a similar age as he himself, walked to the small table at the foot of the bed in St. Mungos, stretched a piece of parchment out and busied himself setting up a Self-Writing Quill. The young mans black hair was the same as Greg remembered from school, messy in a way that only heightened its attractiveness and the glasses too looked like they had not changed, nor had the green eyes behind them. It had been nearly two full years since Greg had last seen this man, and the confidence with which he moved spoke of how different those two years had been for him vs. Greg.

The Self-Writing Quill now fully set up, the younger man stepped aside and gestured for the woman to begin.

"What? Does it just write what everyone…"she trailed off as she saw the quill glide across the parchment writing:

 _Unidentified Female:_ What? Does it just write what everyone

"Ah yes,"she cleared her throat. "Detective Inspector Clementine Milner, Metropolitan Police Anti-Terrorist Branch, interview on June the second, year 2000, conducting officers, DI Milner and er ah… go ahead." She gestured at the young man in Auror robes.

"Junior Auror, Harry Potter, Magical Law Enforcement Liaison, interview conducted in St. Mungos Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, Fourth Floor, Ward 13," said Harry pleasantly.

"Case Number #00234444X, Attempted bombing of Hammersmith Bridge. Sir," she said turning to Greg at last. "Could you state your name, age, and place of residence for the record."

Greg grimaced at the lance of pain that currently was shooting up his right leg. "I'm Gregory Goyle, don't have no fancy titles or non such. I'm age 19, same as Harry, and unless Zacharias has chucked me out I live at Smith House in Somerset Crescent."

"Does that mean anything to you Auror Potter?" she asked, trying to maintain her calm.

"Yes ma'am," Harry replied. "Smith House is the city residence of the Smith's of Staffordshire, and Somerset Crescent is a well known residential area just off of Diagon Alley. If you need access please don't hesitate to reach out to me, I can get you in and assemble any support that may be needed. The owner of the house, Zacharias, is an old… friend."

"Thank you… What does one call an Auror? Auror? Auror Potter?" she replied her tone switching to one of genuine curiosity.

"Usually it's just a first or last name, please do call me Harry, Detective Inspector," Harry replied with a smile.

"Quite. Now, Mr. Goyle, in your own words can you tell us of the events that led you to be on Hammersmith Bridge yesterday morning?"

Greg took as deep a breath as the broken ribs on his right side allowed. Finch-Fletchly had been more concerned with the internal bleeding and the break to Greg's leg than he had been the cracked rib. Didn't mean the damned thing didn't hurt like the devil.

"Look, 2 weeks ago I met Millie outside an AA meeting," Greg began. But the muggle policewoman interrupted him.

"AA? Alcoholics Anonymous? I didn't know that wizards needed that kind of thing," she said. "Can't you just magic the bad parts away?"

"Ah…er… yes I need AA," Greg said. "Dunno bout others. But sometimes I just…" He trailed off. This had already been a bad month and if it continued this way he knew that he would end up spending most of it at the bottom of a bottle. They all seemed to start only a ¼ full when Greg found them.

"So tell us more about meeting Ms. Bulstrode, Goyle," Harry prompted gently.

Greg tried to focus on the conversation, "She," he shifted slightly and grimaced in pain. "She, said Vince was alive and well…"

Greg told the story of his journey with Millicent Bulstrode to the strange church. He spoke of the conversations with his cousin and his cousin's plan for revenge. And he spoke of Vince's ghost, at length. And the muggle policewoman only interrupted him once when he mentioned the name of this frightening group of those who would see civilization destroyed.

"Gavin said that the were Vandals, and of course I…" Greg had said.

"gah...Called the what?" Detective Inspector Clementine interjected with a compressed snort of laughter. "The vandals did you say? As in blokes with spray paint running around?"

"Um… I dunno," Greg said truthfully. Had the Vandals had some form of spray paint they used? He was a little fuzzy on how they had breached Aurelian's Walls.

"Wizards and Witches have a slightly different view of them, Detective Inspector," Harry commented from where he was leaning against the wall. "My friend Hermione would know exactly, all I remember is that we spent a large portion of time talking about them during my first year History of Magic Class, something to do with Goblins I think."

"Go ahead Mr. Goyle," said the muggle.

"I knew then he was serious," Greg said finishing the beginning of the story. Greg paused before continuing slowly, "It wasn't until a day or so later that I actually started to think about this in a bit more detail.

"I'm no fan of the Ministry. Don't mistake me, but the more I thought about the idea the more it seemed like something my Da would have done, hurt as many people as possible because he had scars and felt he shouldna."

The silence after this statement stretched. Greg lay his head back the pain in his body now merely a reflection of the pain in his mind.

"I wanted so much to feel that release. This bloody new ministry has spat on me non stop. Its done nothing but push me and dare me to push back," he said with his head still back, but now studying the ceiling.

"I never understood that about you Potter. I never could see HOW you didn't lash out more often at Draco, at Vince… at me. We pushed and pushed and you found other ways to be beat us to make us look the fools. I never did, Mr. Mal...Draco, his comments they didn't push me. I knew then that I deserved them. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid," Greg knocked his head gently against his pillows to emphasize this point.

"Did you ever get into the Slytherin Common Rooms Potter?" When Harry shook his head Greg continued.

"They're beautiful, the lakes surrounding you so you have this sense of being insulated from the rest of the school. There is a ...room a little lower down, away from the windows it has a grate over the top, circular… its maybe 12 feet across.

"When Vince and I got there it was only used by fourth years… See I wasn't t'only one… there were lots of us that just got so frustrated with the magic and all… we used to hit each other there. No magic, just anyone fourth year or older who needed to let off a little steam could hop in there and if someone else was feeling it they'd have a bout. Muggle fighting you understand?"

At Harry's nod Greg continued, "That arse Nott once said that it was all Muggles were good for, fighting with their hands and fu…

Greg swallowed hard lifting his head to look at the female Detective Inspector, "Sorry Miss. Sorry. I never lost in there… I always won from when I was 12. I didn't care about the rules. I always won. Blaise was a dab hand with helping conceal the effect on our faces. Frankly none of the teachers not even Snape ever asked Vince or I about a cut here or a bruise there. For me though when I see a problem I go straight ahead just like in that room. The ministry buggers me I bugger it back. Gavin's idea made sense. I just wanted to go straight ahead. I didn't want to think I just wanted to feel better by hurting something else.

"The one thing is, after I got out of Azkaban I didn't want to think that way… I've been… I've been trying to learn to think like you Potter or Draco. To think my way through. Merlin I hate it, but Merlin I hated just lashing out more."

Greg gave a little cough and winced at the pain. When he opened his eyes again Potter's wand was out a small cup of water floated in front of him.

"Thanks," he grunted, taking the cup and taking a sip.

"Mr. Goyle, can you continue with what happened after you met with these… ahem… Vandals on the 16th of May?" DI Milner asked him carefully.

"Yah, Merlin's arse, yah. So about three days after I met Millie I'm sitting there all excited because I get to finally hit something after being held back. I'm feeling better'n I have in a bit without a fifth in me. But my mind is still tickled by something. Vince as a Merlin crazed ghost? Moving around like that? From Hogwarts to just wandering England?

"I'd not heard of ghosts truly wandering like Vince had said he'd done. So I asked Z, er Zacharias Smith if he knew while keeping my reason to meself. Said it was something I'd heard at Mr. D's. Turns out Z wasn't 100% and next thing I know he and I are in his freaking library looking fer a book on Ghosts. Found it too. Said that the Ministry keeps track of where ghosts tend to go in Britain."

Greg leaned back once more. "We also found a spell. _Falsum Exspiravitum_ , the false ghost spell. It was in a book called _1001 Ideas to scare Muggles on All Hallows Eve_. Z tossed it to me for a lark suggesting that Mr. D's newly found ghost was nothing but a prank."

"Vince didn't leave a ghost. That prick Gavin, or probably Millie… one of them had cast this spell. See one of the spells effects are that if you do a ghost of a person once alive they will deliberately mislead people as to their cause of death. The bloody book called it a fun guessing game for children. For children,"Greg repeated louder more frustrated.

"It that is what they thought of me, that I should be be recruited like a child with a fun party game," Greg waved his hand to imitate the idea of this game, "Then I was done, I was out. And that's when I sent that message to the DMLE Potter, never thought it would take over a week to get to you."

"Ron's actually been assigned to look further into the circumstances here," Harry said, then leaning forward to be closer to the quill, "That is Junior Auror Ronald Weasley."

"Your people had foreknowledge of this attack and didn't tell us?" Detective Inspector Milner said watching Harry straightening up once more.

"It is being looked into Detective Inspector. Ron's my best friend and now that he's gotten that whole professional quidditch out of his mind he's rejoined the Aurors. He can be a little blunt at times, but he's very dedicated," Harry said, seeing the police officers comment as an attack on Ron's competence.

"I'm sure he'll do well, but, ah, Junior Auror Potter, can I have a precis of the situation?" she asked with a delicate edge to her voice as if a steel trap was waiting to be sprung.

"Oh, of course," Harry flipped back several pages in a small notebook he had been taking notes in, and then began. "The DMLE received a barn owl on May 27 with a message addressed to me. The handwriting was not immediately recognized by that charm so it was marked for review. The DMLE get's thousands of this type of correspondence a day, the mail sorting charms do excellent work and we've recently employed a free elf to help out with this as well. This type of message, a first time sender with details about supposed attacks to come was flagged and sent correctly to the review team on May 28 and then wasn't touched until just the 31st, when it was forwarded to the Auror Office, and then arrived on my desk at exaclty 23:00 on May 31st. We think the review team may have been _confunded_ , but as I said the Auror squads are looking into this."

"Thank you," Clementine said, making her own notes. "So Mr. Goyle, if you had reported the situation to the authorities _why_ did you go to the bridge?"

"I didn plan on it," Greg said. "I'd kinda figured that Potter and Weasley and others were going to show up and throw me back into Azkaban so I'd done my best to go to ground, at Vince's old place. He'd signed the 3 year rental about April of '98. Anyway's I'm there and get bored so I grabbed this half torn copy of the Daily Prophet from the flat down the paper was probably a month old then and I starts reading it. Get all the way to the back and there is this picture of my solicitor on the penultimate page."

Greg stopped in his story, a lump in his throat. After a minute of heavy silence he continued. "I never knew him that well honestly. He was just there as my solicitor. But I saw his picture on the Penultimate Page and I couldn't shake this comment he had made to me at my parole hearing, 'Do better than we did.'"

Greg turned an eye towards Potter, "Did you know 'im Potter? Mr. Horatio Fenwick? Nah? Turns out me Dad killed his son Benjy during the First Blood War. Still this old man worked on my behalf, got me paroled, shook my hand and told me to 'Do Better.'

"So I left Vince's place and went back to Smith House. And then when I still wasn't contacted or arrested I went out to see what was going to happen that night.

"I knew the path that the Vandals planned on taking and I figured if I didn't show up they would use magic to move the erumpent horn and one of them would carry the flask of acid. So I took the Tube to Hammersmith that evening, went and walked around St. Paul's Green. Do you know it… ah… Detector?" Greg asked finally looking squarely at the muggle policeoffcer.

"I can't say I do," DI Milner responded.

"My Da used to send me there when he was visiting me mam in St. Mungo's," Greg said. "It wasn't an area other Wizards were likely to see me see and muggle parents he figured would figure I was with someone else. A quick nanny spell and he was off.

"So I walked the Green again, till the hours were getting late, its a direct shot up from the bridge to the Station and therefore to the Potionwerks located there. I kept thinking I was going to see ministry Auror's show up, there's a way you lot wear muggle clothing that just makes it clear you be Aurors," Greg said in almost conversational tone to Potter.

"Gavin an Millie came walking up the street careful like both holding wands on the erumpent horn. I panicked ran towards them and knocked Mille down, tried to grab the horn but Gav beat me to it and ran off with it. Millie shot a jinx at me then apparated. I followed Gav wondering why he didn't jest apparate away from me. Managed to catch up to him just before the bridge, Gav's in no shape see. He turned on me shouted something I couldn't hear and threw the horn on the road just before an approaching bus. I grabbed the horn and tried to get out of the way but the bus caught me I went over the side and the horn went off. It's simple really."

Potter spoke now, "I apparated to St. Pauls Green in time to see Goyle start chasing this Gavin…"

Greg leaned his head back once more. It was simple to say, to have lived it was a different matter. He really only could remember it in flashes, the startled looks on Millie and Gavin's faces when he had jumped the iron fence separating them from him with a roar. The way Millie's wand had shot the cruciatus wide even when she was aiming dead center at him. Gavin's fading footsteps as he turned to run. And most of all the shouts Gavin had tossed at Greg at the bridge. He had described it as something he couldn't hear. But he had heard.

"Greg! Why did you startle us there, we thought you had been picked up by the _Aurochs_." Gavin had said trying to smile.

'I can't let you do this Gav. People will be hurt. We've got to do better, not fall back on the violence of our parents.' Greg had tried to say. Except his tongue felt like it kept swelling each time he tried to speak so that all that had actually come out was "Bugger you and your Vandals Gav."

Gavin's face had fallen and he shouted "You're a Blood Traitor, Goyle. Vince would be so sad at this. Watch these muggle's burn for your interference." and then Gavin Rosier dropped to a knee and slid the horn in front of the on rushing bus.

Greg had moved without even thinking, springing forward with a speed that was startling to almost everyone had grabbed the horn and leapt for the other side of the road when the bus caught his right leg spinning him around and tossing him higher over the side of Hammersmith bridge. He had lost hold of the horn as he was flung towards the water below and the sudden explosion of the horn against the side of the bridge had flung Greg hard into the water below.

"...I saw Mr. Goyle go over the side heard the explosion and immediately sent my Patronus to Ron to request back up. I pulled Mr. Goyle out of the water gave him the limited help I could put the tourniquet around his leg for example and began obliviating memories of the bus driver and the occupants."

"Okay Auror Potter, I guess that wraps this then. I've got a list of items a mile long I need clarification on I'll send that your way. I also agree that we'll mention that this is a suspected Real IRA plant. Shouldn't be too much trouble." DI Milner stood and took the transcript of the interrogation. Potter walked her out chatting amiably with her the door closing behind them.

Greg let his mind wander, feeling each of those areas of pain in himself, not the least was where it still hurt to be called a Blood Traitor. He looked up as a shaft of light from the hallway shone onto his bed.

"Goyle," Harry Potter said from the doorway where he was leaning casually against the frame. "You did better." And with that he turned and walked away.


	10. Chapter 9: Mudgley Muggle

Mudgley Muggle

 _Three Months Later_

"Have good trip Greg!" Miss Charlotte said cheerily from the door of 14 Milton Ct, as Greg walked down the path. The garden of the house was considerably nicer in the end blaze of summer than in frigid first breath of winter.

"Thanks Miss Charlotte!" he called back over his shoulder as he began his walk to the Tube station. "I'm really looking forward to getting out of London."

"Well call if you need to. Bye!" Miss Charlotte turned and walked back into the House/office that she shared with her sister and her sisters family. Greg had been amazed when he showed up one afternoon and a man dressed in stunning white robes had opened the door, called him by name and welcomed him.

Miss Charlotte told Greg that she often asked her sister and brother-in-law to give her space for the first few meeting with wizarding clients to make everyone feel more comfortable. They would apparate off to a small apothecary they ran in Diagon Alley leaving the house open for Charlotte.

Greg was surprised at how light on his feet felt. He was going to be leaving London for a week and he still was not fully convinced that this would actually be happening. While he had been recouping at St Mungo's Zacharias had stopped by to drop of the mail that had arrived for Greg.

To Greg's everlasting astonishment in between the various dunning letters from Stallings and Stallings, the slew of death threats - those had been coming his way ever since the Prophet had published a few details of the incident at Hammersmith Bridge in its Magical Law Enforcement blotter - and the offers for cheap broomstick polish there was one letter of actual interest.

The envelope was plain white, with the address written in the neatest most orderly printing that Greg had ever seen: Mr. Gregory Goyle, Smith House, Somerset Crescent, London. He wondered if whoever had sent this had a printing press like the Daily Prophet or Quibbler. There was even muggle picture sticker thing on the envelope with a woman's noble head picked out in unmoving grey on a blue background.

Opening the envelope several neatly pressed pages fell out. On in the same neat, deliberate hand as had addressed the envelope and the other a more traditional scrawl of someone writing with quill and ink.

Greg picked up the quilled page to read:

"Hullo Mr. Goyle,

After our chance meeting at the game against RAA and speaking with Zacharias I asked the head coach at MMS if he thought it was worth it to bring you on, and then after we saw the article in the Prophet the other day. Well it all fell into place fast. Please send me a reply by owl as soon as you can.

Terrence Higgs

PS. If you by chance are without a broom don't worry about it we've got a decent selection at the school, nothing fancy but enough to get you around the pitch."

The other letter on paper embossed with the seal of Mudgley Muggle School read:

"Mr. Gregory Goyle

Spare Bedroom

Smith House

Somerset Crescent

Dear Sir,

It is with great pleasure that I invite you to join us as a Visiting Instructor of Beaters for the first week of Quidditch training and selection at Mudgley Muggle School.

The school will of course be pleased to cover all travel costs, provide room and board for the length of your stay and provide you with an honorarium of 10 Galleons for your efforts.

Please respond via post.

Sincerely,  
Keiran Broadmoor

Dean of Sports

Quidditch Manager, Mudgley Muggle"

With the help of a friendly Mediwitch two wards over who had attended Mudgley Muggle and had become of St. Mungo's chief liason with Muggle Britain, Greg had sent his eager response the same day.

And now his day of departure had arrived. With a term slated to start the next day, Greg was eager to reach Somerset. He had received a sheath of tickets and directions indicating how best to reach the hamlet of Mudgley, and he had a train to catch. With a smirk to himself he marveled at how much he seemed to be looking forward to using the muggle conveyances. He fancied that he had in his months going to Miss Charlotte's become a bit of an expert in muggle transport, he was fully versed in the strange unwritten etiquette of the tube station and trains and felt he was ready for this foray outside London.

Miss Charlotte had also specifically suggested they role play a scenario where he got lost. He was now confident in his ability to tell a police officer that he was on holiday and needed help.

It was a different sort of power, not the giddy rush of magic, but a power all the same. He looked at what muggles had done in awe now. Not his father's hatred or the Malfoy's disdain or even the Greengrass's pity. It was awe.

Platform 1 at Paddington Station was a jumble of muggles of all sorts. Although there did seem to be a number of families seeing their students off for a new year. The riots of color bright red and white mixed with blue and gold, amongst university bound students and outfits of more extreme style for other schools. Each group seemed to stop by several statues lining the approach to the Platform to take photographs, the most popular of which seemed to be that of a bear.

When the train itself arrived and began preparations for departure once more it was as much a source of wonder to Greg as the muggles had been. It was no train of the London underground but neither was it the scarlet steam engine that pulled the Hogwarts express. The front of the triangular nose was painted yellow, and the rest of the train a blue that moved from nearly purple near the track to practically sky blue where the black roof began. A stream of light purple and lighter blue accent paint swirled down the sides, reminding Greg strongly of the light that speed from a wand on casting _Flipendo_ successfully.

He boarded the train with his rucksack casually tossed over his right shoulder, and found his seat. A surprisingly spacious one with a table in front of it. Greg settled in for the trip to the first of his change points, Bath.

Nearly three hours later on the bus that was bouncing over the road towards Wedmore Greg had found his enthusiasm for muggle transportation to be nearing its end. Thankfully there had been some decent periods of walking to allow him a chance to stretch his legs and not feel as if he had just been the target of a shaking jinx.

Descending the stairs of the bus at the pillar box in Theale Village he was surprised to see Terrence Higgs and another shorter man, leaning against the bonnet of a Range Rover with a discrete crest on the door.

"Mr. Goyle," Terrence called to Greg from where they waited. With a wave Greg crossed the street to the two men.

"Hullo Mr. Higgs, thank you so much for the invitation," Greg gushed, talking so fast he felt that this must be what Zacharias's words must feel like all the time. "You can call me Greg though."

"I shall Greg! But you must call me Terrence. Oh where are my manners, Mr. Gregory Goyle, may I present to you Mr. Keiran Broadmoor, our Dean of Sport, and head coach of our Quidditch team. Dean Broadmoor, Mr. Gregory Goyle." Terrence made the introductions as if he had been presenting a tasty treat.

"Very pleased to meet you, Mr. Broadmoor," Greg said looking at the obviously older wizard. He wore muggle clothing with no sense of self consciousness that many wizards did. He was short, and round but there was a sparkle in his eye that Greg liked.

"And you, Mr. Goyle. Terrence, let's get this young man back to the school and get him out on the pitch." Broadmoor's voice had an accent that tickled at Greg's mind.

"That sounds excellent Dean Broadmoor. I've not had too much time on a broom recently." Greg confessed.

"No worries lad, aside from last years hold overs only most folks won't start flying till next Wednesday. I'll run a few drills I drew up for my brothers for you if you like." Broadmoor said with a slight smile.

After a short drive, Terrence and Dean Broadmoor introduced Mudgley Muggle to Greg. It was a sprawling campus of relatively hilly terrain with the buildings of the school spread out over them in seemingly haphazard fashion. No building rose more than 3 stories, and aside from the main hall, pointed out only in passing by Dean Broadmoor, they all seemed newly built. When Greg made a comment on this Terrence gave him a strange look and said, "The school's been around for 125 years actually. We just had to rebuild most of in the last 4 years."

"Did something happen to it?" Greg asked curiously.

It was Dean Broadmoor who answered, short, direct and emotionless, "Voldemort and a giant decided to try and shut us down."

Greg blushed furiously. He should have known. He should have remembered. Greg's father spoke the giant tongue fluently, he had been the one who urged Greg to take that holiday with the Malfoys. And on Greg's return he had been smirking at how he and some friends had shown the Dark Lord their worth. Greg hadn't asked but the laundry that his father had left for him to do 'the muggle way' was covered in blood.

In silence the group came at last to a one story building that filled the space between two steep hills. With a wave Terrence beckoned Greg to follow him into the building and down a narrow hallway. Like many wizard buildings this one was larger on the inside than the outside. And the hallway though narrow seemed to travel for twice the width of the building it was inside.

The room at the end was obviously mean to coaches and referees and teachers to change into appropriate Quidditch gear. Greg slung his rucksack down on one of the benches and began opening it for his old robes.

"Greg," Terrence said, "You can use this locker while you're here." He gestured to a sizable locker space just down from Terrence's own. Greg moved down and opened the doors, inside were a set of dark grey robes with 'Instructor' picked out in white on the black and MM crest on the left breast.

"I think the robes should fit you, once you're changed come see me outside," Terrence gestured towards a door opposite the one they had entered through. Greg hurriedly changed into the MM robes, thankful he was wasn't trying to fit into his old Slytherin Quidditch robes once more. There were too many memories of those to make wearing them enjoyable.

Shaking his head to clear it of the descending black thoughts he stepped out of the door onto a grate floored balcony. Below him was Mudgley Muggles' quidditch pitch and it was unlike anything he had ever seen before. The dressing room building spanned the space between two steep hills and as Greg had surmised the pitch lay between the hills. It had made sense, the hills would provide decent coverage from local muggle eyes for flying up to 100 feet or so, but Greg had wondered even then about that. On average you wanted a clear blocking structure to be roughly 250 feet of which only the top 100 could be strictly spell based. What Greg had not forseen was that actual pitch of MM was sunken. An old quarry had been repurposed as the pitch. Roughly 50 feet nearly straight down from the dressing rooms was the actual pitch itself. Since most muggle/quidditch incidents were based on muggles looking and seeing large numbers of people sitting in stands way up in the air by lowering the pitch and starting stands from the 50 foot mark up to just below the crest of the hills MM provided some of the most ingenious anti-muggle security there was, the kind that didn't need constant reapplication of spells to make work.

There was a rack of Cleansweep 11s just outside the door, which drew Greg's attention when he finally stopped marveling at the simplicity of the design of the pitch. Most beaters tended to grab any old broomstick and get in the air, focusing more bashing the quaffle heroically from one end of the pitch to the other. In which case any old broom would do. Greg knew better. If that was indeed the case then you wouldn't see national teams all flying racing brooms, after all the Beater brooms could just be a any old stick with twigs and maybe a charm or two.

As a beater you needed to be able to not only over take and redirect the bludgers at a moment's notice, but you also needed to be able keep pace with a seekers and chasers as they moved around a pitch.

Just as you needed a good broom, when faced with a series of the same broom, there were subtle differences in the wood, the grain, the care for the twigs, how much lift the cushioning charm gave. Most of this could be adjusted but Greg figured that since he was a visitor for a week and was not likely to have the chance to tweak a particular broom.

As Greg was examining the twig trimming on what seemed to be the best of the lot of these Cleansweep 11s Dean Broadmoor touched down.

"I thought I'd find you here," the Dean said holding his own broom to the side carefully. It was a beautiful green color in the wood and brush was made of exquisitely shaped and trimmed twigs all a striking white color. In short the broom in the colors of his Hogwarts house spoke to Greg as no other broom ever had.

"Seems you've found the best of visiting brooms, Mr. Goyle," the Dean continued with a nod to the one Greg held in his hands.

"Hmm… oh yeah I suppose. Er… Mr...that is Dean Broadmoor, what broom is that?" Greg asked with a nod to the beautiful broom that the older man carried at his side.

Dean Broadmoors's flash of a grin showed he was pleased that Greg had asked. "Oh this?" he said with a false attempt at calm. "It's called a Hikosugi, the newest racing broom from Japan, and in my opinion the best broom a person could have, full stop.

"I tell you what Mr. Goyle, impress me this week and I'll let you take a spin on it, alright lad?"

Part of Greg bristled at being called a lad, but most of him wanted to fly that broom more than he would admit. With a nod to the Dean he said, "It's a deal Dean Broadmoor, shall we start flying?"

The Dean flashed that grin once more that Greg was starting to realize was something this man did often on the pitch. With a flash the Dean was mounted and cutting down towards the pitch below. Greg was not about to be out done and mounted the Cleansweep 11 smoothly and began his own rapid descent.

The Dean's off-handed comment about impressing him still in Greg's mind, he approached the pitch faster than was strictly safe and had to do two small loops to bleed a bit of his speed before he touched down.

There were approximately 20 or so people gathered around the Dean and all older than Greg and most were older than Terrance as well.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," the Dean said, "thank you for agreeing to join my other coaches and myself for this week long intensive kick start to our school year. In large part because of what you managed to teach our team last year during this time we managed to reach the championship match against Durmstrang Institute for the European Schools Quidditch Cup. This year with your help I hope to reach the Continental Cup.

"Well the team and hopefuls will be here tomorrow. For this afternoon let's do some warm up flying and then break off into the units to do more precise flying, that is Keeper's you'll be with Ms Wiggs; Chasers with Mr. Higgs, Ms Brout and Mr. Englert; Beaters with me; Seekers with Mr. Murray."

And with that they were off, broomsticks shooting into the air as the lapped the pitch for the 'warm up' flights as they were called. Greg was the only one there on a school broom, and judging by how many international quality brooms he was seeing he didn't expect to be at the front of the pack for the circles. However, it soon became clear, that the others were letting the slower brooms set the pace. A Cleansweep 11 could reach 70mph in 10 seconds, but its top speed was somewhere in the 115MPH range, and that took considerably longer to reach.

They split for their individual flying drills and Greg found himself with the Dean and another even larger man who bore a striking resemblance to the Dean. When Greg saw the ring on the other man's finger it clicked just who it was he was training with here.

"You're Kevin Broadmoor, you used to play for the Falmouth Falcons! Me father used to speak about watching you play all the time," Greg said in shock looking at the larger man on perched on the distinctive frame of a Firebolt.

"Aye, I'm Kevin, Keiran's always looked out fer me and tosses these odd coaching gigs my way every so often. He's a corker all right. Was yer Da a Falcon's Fan? Want me to sign something fer him?" the giant of a man asked carefully.

Greg shifted his weight on his broom bringing it closer in line with where Kevin Broadmoor hovered waiting for the Dean to return from talking to the other groups. "My father was a supporter, but he's dead. Thank you for the offer," Greg tried to put as much warmth into the thank you as he could since he knew that his tone had grown frosty when mentioning his father's death.

"Well, no worries. Ye've got the advantage of me though, I din't know yer name." Kevin said.

"Oh, ah sorry, I'm Gregory Goyle, please call me Greg."

"Oh-ho!" Kevin exclaimed. "You're the one who hit the two snitch shots are ya? Well glad to have you flying with us Greg."

Greg blushed, did everyone know that story now? At least it was only half the story. At that moment Dean Broadmoor arrived and began their own exercises.

Fours hours of flying later had made Greg realize just how rusty his skills were. Still the chance to be on a broom was not one to be missed. After the review and drills were finished the entire group changed and went off to the dining hall for dinner. Greg asked the Dean if he could stay and work a bit more and got that flash of a smile as an affirmative.

He flew till there was barely enough light for him to make out the hills. Sprints and laps and dives and climbs and agility bounces kept him fully occupied. When he touched down at last at the locker room, Terrence was waiting to show him the way to the dining commons as well as to the Visiting Faculty housing area, where almost all of the other instructors were already relaxing after the flying that day. Most with a glass of firewhiskey at hand.

Greg took one look at the common room where the talk was flowing and stories of quidditch games of long ago were being discussed and the scent of the alcohol was heavy in the air and excused himself. If he could he was going to stay as far away from the stuff as possible. He sought his bed and collapsed exhausted but with a smile brighter than he had imagined possible just 10 days before. He was back to _flying_.


End file.
